


The Flame of Tech Duinn

by Thornvale



Series: Beyond the Black Veil [3]
Category: Maleficent (Disney Movies)
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Blood and Injury, Burns, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Comedy, Death, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Family Issues, Fantasy, Fluff, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Horror, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology - Freeform, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Recovery, Relapsing, Series, Supernatural Elements, Trauma, Undead, Violence, established universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 177,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornvale/pseuds/Thornvale
Summary: Sequel to ‘The Treasure of Witches’ and ‘The White Raven’.The Moors are on the brink of war for actions they did not commit.Diaval endeavours to fix any fissures in his treasured relationships, but can’t quite get the discovery he made in the kingdom of Breoslaigh out of his mind.A golden flame, guarded by the mysterious Veiled Queen, said to be the key to ending the invasion of undead across the united kingdoms.There is nothing Diaval would not do out of love.
Relationships: Aurora/Phillip (Disney), Diaval/Maleficent (Disney)
Series: Beyond the Black Veil [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597402
Comments: 260
Kudos: 141





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the third (and final) part of this series! Sorry for the wait - life has been an absolute rollercoaster and it’s taken me some time to get this first chapter done.
> 
> Many thanks to those who have supported me along the way, especially with the way things are in the world at the moment. This one is for you guys, and you all have my love.
> 
> Chapter 1 and 2 will follow Diaval before he returned to Ulstead in The White Raven, when he went off spying against Aurora’s wishes. After that, it’s back to your irregularly scheduled Maleval and angst and everything else there is in store. Hope you enjoy!

_‘Tis from hellish pits the fiend was summoned_

_By farmer’s hand he was almost bludgeoned!_

_By faerie magic he lives, he thrives_

_Ensnares princesses with his smile, his eyes_

_Diablo the Demon Raven_

_Witch’s hand, vile servant_

_The devil laid with the Sun and the Moon_

_He turned Summer to Winter far too soon_

_Defeated, he sold his soul, his soul_

_And rose a dragon, death his toll, his toll_

_Diablo the Demon Raven_

_Onyx scales, heart of fire_

_The maker of mischief, tipper of scales_

_Mate of a faerie whose dark heart prevails_

_Stealer of children, Aurora, lost queen!_

_Bringer of death, Feth Fiadha, Unseen!_

_Diablo the Demon Raven_

_Blackest wings, sharpest claws_

_If fate e’er hand you a witch’s treasure_

_Keep your eyes on the sky for good measure_

_The shadow of wings descends, descends_

_Claws tear out your throat and it ends, it ends_

_Diablo the Demon Raven!_

  
  


* * *

There were many times in Diaval’s life when he’d wondered how on earth he had ended up in a particular place, though this time was different in that he literally could not remember how and why he was in a foreign kingdom. All he could do was take a fairly educated guess. One moment he was throwing himself over Maleficent to protect her from falling debris, the next he was stumbling through a dry canyon in tattered, blood-soaked clothes and collapsing at the feet of very surprised looking soldiers.

They were all young men. None of them recognised him for who he was. More importantly, they did not assume him to be a supernatural sort of creature. Given the barren landscape of the expansive kingdom, it could be nowhere but Breoslaigh, the mysterious land to the east of the Moors (Diaval would not figure that out until later, however). The soldiers had dragged him back to the barracks outside the city walls and seen him cleaned up and his festering wounds tended to.

For two days, Diaval laid there in an infirmary with sandy stone walls and nurses in forest-green garb. He couldn’t remember most of that, either, only the occasional gentle touch of one of the staff, or the laughing or snoring of the small hall’s other occupants. The hollering bothered him on the third day, and he found the strength to slowly sit up and let the itchy grey blanket covering him to drop down. 

The hall fell into silence. There were three other men in the lines of beds, one with a broken arm, one with bandages around his head, and the other with a taped up thigh. They were young, too - younger than Diaval appeared, at least. They gaped at him, and he followed their gaze by looking down at himself, finding his torso and arms near enough mummified with bandages. His throat was dry as a desert, too, so he stiffly reached for the cup of water on the table beside him with much relief.

“What was it, mate? A bear?” One of the other men asked in a hushed tone. “Looks like a bear did it, don’t it, fellas? You’re lucky they found you out there!”

Diaval blearily acknowledged his words. It hurt to swallow, but the water provided cooling relief for his parched throat. Gods, but everything that could possibly hurt was hurting, so much so that it took a moment to pinpoint the worst injuries - a broken finger, now tied to the one beside it, and a few particularly deep lacerations on his upper half. His face felt to be on fire whenever he moved it. With a pained grunt, he lowered back down to the pillow and closed his eyes. 

“Where’m I?” He rasped.

There was a brief pause, and then one of the other men spoke - the one with the broken arm, a man of about twenty with a mass of flyaway hair and a nervous smile.

“Uh, Breoslaigh. The infirmary. What’s your name, guy? You look too old to be a recruit - no offence.”

It took Diaval a moment to acknowledge the nature of his whereabouts. He tried not to let his surprise show on his face, though his eyes snapped open again and fixed on the ceiling. Breoslaigh?! How had he ended up there? Racking his memory, he tried to focus on the blank space after the fight in the temple, and … there was Wynne, Maleficent, and then … flying. He was flying, strong wings soaring over the forests of the Moors, fire churning in his chest. But why? And who were these people?

Breoslaigh. Tentative enemies of the Moors, then. It would be better to keep his name to himself.

“Not sure,” he managed. “Must’ve hit my head.”

“Yeah, yeah, not surprised. Why don’t we give you a name until you remember it? What about, er … Bearbane?”

“No,” interjected one of the others. “Stupid. Bearfoot. It’s funny, get it? He had next to no clothes on.”

“Yeah, Bearfoot, that’ll do. The naked brawler himself, champion over bear-kind! Bearfoot!”

“Bearfoot! He lives!”

“He lives!”

The men guffawed among themselves, and Diaval was forced to wonder what on earth he had gotten himself into. 

“We don’t use our names, anyway. They don’t sound heroic enough,” The young man with wild hair continued. “I’m Swan, ‘cause I bit General Lough right on the hand when he had me pinned on the floor during training. It’s good to meet you, Bearfoot! We’ll have you back to your unit in no time.”

The boy known as Swan, as it turned out, would come to be a useful ally when it came to navigating the mysterious world outside of the infirmary when the time came to leave a couple of days later. 

Diaval’s supposed unit was never found. He never remembered his name. He did not even properly know how to use a sword. Whatever military operation was occurring outside the walls of Breoslaigh, they did not seem to care at all that he had no name and no apparent past, instead thrusting him in with the army’s recruits where he was indeed the oldest present. It was foolish to go along with it, but Diaval had long since spied an opportunity; he had mistakenly found himself among the military ranks of enemy territory, and so he would make the most of it to gather as much information about them from the inside as he could. 

Going home was a much more terrifying notion. 

He knew well enough what had happened. The memories either came to him in short bursts or he could piece much of it together. Diaval had transformed and he had lost himself entirely, something that truly terrified him to the core. Buried in the rage of a dragon, he had wrecked carnage with his great strength and his burning fire and then he had flown away, much to his great shame. All he had wanted to do was save Maleficent when it had seemed as though they would be buried together underneath the rubble of a collapsing temple, but he had fallen back into that dark space he so feared, that which Maleficent had pulled him from that day on the farm. He had fallen into that void, the shadow that followed him day to day: his true nature. A beast of the wilds. No true man.

He wouldn’t be there for long, he thought. Once he had gathered enough useful information, he would return to the Moors and face whatever was waiting for him.

And so, he’d gone along with whatever the humans deemed necessary. He donned their strange armour and attended the morning drills. Much to his dismay, he’d even had to cut his hair to satisfy the upper echelons of whatever military organisation he had stumbled his way in to. As much as he tried to please them in order to fit in, there was little he could do about the fact he did not know how to use a sword. At all.

Two days after they had deemed him well enough, he was required to join the sparring. It would be easy, he thought; most of the recruits were teenagers or very young men and would likely be issued with wooden swords and watermelons for practise. To his surprise, such was not the case. They were given real swords, and perhaps it was that Breoslaigh was of a culture that taught swordplay at a young age, for they were all expected to know at least how to properly swing them. 

Diaval watched them fight with rising dread. Dust blew into his eyes whenever it was kicked up by their feet - the lands of Breoslaigh outside of the massive, sand-coloured city walls were dry and near enough lifeless. The ground was hard and littered with cracks that frequently victimised the ankles of sparring soldiers. Seemingly dead plants rolled about the flat terrain towards adventures unknown, out into the dull, endless plains beyond the kingdom.

It was a dead place, but the humans had somehow found a way to survive it. For all their silence the past however many years, they were war-ready and defended their city with all they had. Enormous ballistas crowned every single tower and turret along the walls, of which there were many, and countless guards stood lined up wherever he looked. They all carried plain swords and long, tubular objects of mysterious purpose. Though he had not yet ventured past the city walls, he suspected the place would be crawling with guards, too.

“We’re up,” came an enthusiastic voice beside him, pulling him from his thoughts. The boy called Swan tapped him on the shoulder, beaming a toothy grin, and then offered up a rusty sword that he had yanked from the old rack nearby. It seemed all the best ones had already been taken by the sparring pairs all around. “You look like you’ve never seen one of these in your life!”

“Never held one,” Diaval responded shortly, reluctantly taking the weapon. It was heavier than it looked. 

“What? Are you some sort of lord that’s never had to fight a day in his life, then?” Swan pressed, more out of an innocent interest than anything derogatory. 

The boy had a talent for asking questions. While Diaval had been recovering in the infirmary, Swan had been right there by his side the entire while, either talking nonstop about something of interest or pressing Diaval for more information about himself - which was, of course, quite off limits. Forced to maintain that he had simply lost his memory in the supposed attack that had given him his new nickname, Diaval usually listened to him in silence, his thoughts drifting to home and family.

“No,” he said, perhaps more firmly than intended. “How’re you supposed to fight with a broken arm?”

“I’m left-handed! You’re not getting out of it that easily. What did you usually fight with, then? A bow? An axe?” Swan’s dark eyes widened with excitement. “Nunchucks?”

Diaval thought a moment, turning the sword in his hand this way and that with an awkwardness born from sheer lack of experience. He hated violence as much as a person possibly could, though it felt to be difficult to admit in a kingdom that seemed to place a good deal of importance in warfare. Still, he was an outsider and gained strength from such a thing; he did not agree with Breoslaigh’s principles and certainly would not bow down to them. 

He did not understand how the people could view battle as something to look forward to. They were taught to find honour in it, and they were taught that every other kingdom was an enemy to be wary of. They were fodder for a person who did not know the first thing about fighting, and the tragedy was that they did not seem to realise it, for they fervently believed that what they were training for was what was right. 

And they were training for war, there was no doubt about that. 

Having spent a small time among them, Diaval could not bring himself to dislike them. The majority of them were young men that had been drafted into a recruitment scheme where they would train to become soldiers. They were told that it was their life’s purpose to one day fight for Breoslaigh’s future, and that was truly a notion that they had been taught since infancy. The ones Diaval disliked were the invisible puppet-masters somewhere beyond those walls.

Regarding Swan a moment, Diaval then leaned in as though about to tell a secret. The boy eagerly shuffled closer.

“I only fight when I have to, and when I do have to, I use these.” Lifting a hand, he flexed his fingers to show off his claws, if only to sate Swan’s apparent fascination. He allowed a moment for the other to stare with a gobsmacked expression, then moved off to a small clearing among the fighting men, wincing slightly as the clanging of swords hurt his sensitive ears. 

“ _Cool_ ,” said Swan, still gaping. “Did you file those? Can I do that, too?” Before Diaval even had a chance to respond, the younger man sped over to him and began to properly arrange his hold on the sword. “Here. Like this. Hey, there’s some wagers going on in the barracks about you, y’know. Birch thinks you’re a war veteran and that you got kidnapped by the Moors and they gave you those weird leafy scars to torture you. Cadaver thinks you’re a werewolf. Claims he’s an expert about the supernatural, see. I’m not so sure.” He raised his sword. “I’ll come at you slowly, try and block me!”

Diaval did just that whenever the blade came his way. He did not focus on the sparring, however, standing quite still as he deflected the light blows, not particularly interested in the ways of the sword. Swan was quite the opposite, dancing about with dizzying energy and even making sound effects whenever he struck Diaval’s sword.

“I’m not either of those things,” Diaval assured him. “Just a man with no memory, y’know. I don’t even know what we’re trainin’ for. Just goin’ along with it, really.”

“ _I_ know stuff about you. I know that you’re married.” Very carefully, Swan tapped Diaval’s ring with the flat edge of his sword. “I know that you’ve got kids. You’re the only one who’s had the patience to listen to me for days on end. Hah! Most of ‘em just, you know … walk off. You must remember your family, Bearfoot! Aha! There.” The boy pointed with vigour, then resumed with his gentle blows. “I saw it! Right there in your eyes, man, you can’t hide nothing with those. I don’t think you’ve lost your memory at all. You’re just full of secrets. What’s your family like, then?”

Immediately regretting the conversation, Diaval faltered. He stopped blocking the blows and let Swan hold the blade to his throat, though the younger man quickly backed off and lifted his sword, perhaps realising he had crossed a line that admittedly had not been apparent in the first place. Suddenly feeling somewhat vacant, Diaval glanced down at his sword, and then moved to slide it back into the weapons rack it had come from.

“Wait - what’re you doing?” Swan questioned in surprise, though quickly copied him by disposing of his sword, too. “Where’re you going?”

“I don’t like swords,” Diaval admitted, already venturing out of the sea of fighting men.

“Alright, wait - maybe … hey, we can try something else! Maybe you’re more of a bow guy? No - what about a gun? They’re kinda new, see, all you have to do is aim and pull a trigger, and - boom! Gotcha!”

Grabbing Diaval’s arm before he could wander off, Swan pulled him through the dusty sparring field towards a row of tents. Inside, there were poorly maintained stores of projectile weapons, the sight of which was making Diaval feel more and more uncomfortable. His sights landed on a box full of throwing spears and his heart skipped a beat, thoughts drifting to sensations he thought he had forgotten. Slowly reaching around himself, he touched at the phantom pain niggling in his back.

“Bearfoot?” Swan interceded, stepping into his vision with a wave. In his hands, he held one of the long, metal weapons that Diaval was not entirely familiar with, and he offered it forwards. It was about an arm-and-a-half long and bent near the base. “Want a go? There’s targets round the back of the tents, and bullets in the barrels there.”

Diaval did not take the gun. Turning instead to the barrels, he moved closer to them with a look of disdain - he knew without even touching the small, rounded bullets just what material they were made of. He could smell it: that familiar, metallic twang that made the hairs on his arms stand on end simply because of what it meant. Sniffing a bit, he determined that it wasn’t just the bullets that were iron but almost every discarded weapon around him. The shields, most of the newer swords, even the fortifications around the sparring field.

His hands clenched at his sides as a cold anger took hold.

“Bearfoot?” Said Swan, confused. “Mate? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Have you … have you been in a battle before?”

Oh, that’s right. Maybe he had been, technically, only he wasn’t at liberty to disclose just which side he had been on.

The fairies, no matter which kind, were all in danger if the humans were once again forging weapons of iron. As difficult as it was, he had to learn more. He had to know what Breoslaigh was planning and relay it back to Aurora before something terrible happened. 

Taking a breath, he collected himself and turned back to the younger man, glancing reluctantly over the formidable weapon that he held.

“It’s all iron,” he replied, sounding as clueless as he could. “Do they think the fairies are gonna come chargin’ over the river?”

“I dunno. Maybe they will. I mean, we’ve gotta defend ourselves, right? I’ve … Yeah, there’s weird stuff going on in other kingdoms, isn’t there? Fairies and dragons causing trouble. It’s kind of scary to think about it happening here, too. Can you imagine it? A massive black dragon bringing a whole army of undead to destroy a city.”

“Iron doesn’t work against dragons or undead,” Diaval muttered, gritting his teeth. Of course the events had been twisted! It was new being the one to actually be blamed for a disaster, however, rather than merely playing the raven accomplice.

“Doesn’t it? Well, at least it works against fairies. There was one, uh … she cursed an entire kingdom with eternal Winter. Almost spread it to the whole world. She killed all these men …” Swan looked down at the gun in his hands, at first nervous, though by the time he looked at Diaval again, he seemed filled with a fiery determination. “Nothing like that is gonna happen again. That’s why we’re gearing up, right? You never know what they’re planning next. That other witch, Maleficent, she’s still out there.”

Another stab of anger. Diaval turned before it could show, furiously surveying the rows of old equipment.

“Wanna see how this works?” Swan continued, far too enthusiastic for the topic at hand. “C’mon, Bearfoot! You gotta learn how to use something, or the general will have your head!” Pausing, he poked his head out of the tent upon hearing a passing voice, then gestured urgently. “There he is, now! If you can get in good with the general, you can get in good anywhere around here.”

That was a useful prospect, if daunting. Not willing to wallow within the scent-cloud of iron for much longer, Diaval silently followed Swan out towards the target range behind the tents. Beyond, there was a long stretch of pure nothingness that led to the dip towards the river a couple of miles away, and the lush green of the Moors lined the horizon. To the north of Breoslaigh was the sea - looking right, he could see the rise of sheer, ruddy cliffs that dropped down to the waves below. Even from his distance, he could hear the pounding of water against stone and smell the seaweed.

Or perhaps the unpleasant, salty smell was General Lough, a large and untidy man who marched through the small line of recruits practising with their weapons as though he owned them. Diaval disliked him at once. He disliked the arrogant swagger of a man who found power in bullying those smaller and less powerful than he, and that indeed seemed to be his purpose as he shouted with needless rage at boys who could not quite get their grip right. 

“Quick, stand here.” Swan grabbed his arm again and pulled him onto a small marker on the ground, then thrust the gun into his hands. “Hold it under your arm and aim. It’s already loaded. You just pull that thingy back and then hold your finger down on the trigger. Hold your ground though, some of ‘em have a kick.”

Ahead, there were bags of straw hanging from wooden posts, all of them splitting and leaking. Before Diaval could even consider attempting to figure out how to use the wretched weapon - _BANG!_ Violently startled by the deafening noise, he flinched and almost fell over, dropping the gun to cover his ears. 

It was another recruit, the one beside him. The gun in his hands was smoking from the barrel. The hanging bag of straw he had aimed at was now in tatters, near enough destroyed by a single shot. If such a weapon could do that to a mere sack, what would it do to a faerie?

Diaval’s heart pounded violently in his chest. Swan was talking at him, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying. These people were truly out to destroy anything magical out of an uncontrollable fear inspired by the Moon Witch, Maleficent, and even himself - the supposedly demonic creature they knew as Diablo. Children had been raised in such hatred and now they sparred in pairs behind him, delighting in pretending that their foe was a foreign enemy. What shameless, ignorant sort of kingdom would perpetuate the twisted tales and lies? Why did the humans resort to destroying all that they feared?

Nobody could make a soldier out of him. Not even General Lough, who had noticed his reaction to the blast and was storming forwards with gleeful opportunity glinting in his bloodshot eyes. In his wake, the other recruits stopped what they were doing to watch.

Diaval took a neat step back when the man bent down and picked up the gun. Finding it thrust back into his chest, he glanced at Swan, who suddenly looked terrified, then back at the general. Lough was for whatever reason armoured up to the gills and extremely broad, and though he was shorter than Diaval, still somehow managed to leer over him. 

“You’re not gettin’ let off just ‘cause you got attacked by a bear, pretty boy. I don’t know what craven of a man raised you without even showin’ you how to use a sword, but you’ll learn how to fire a gun, god help you, or those fairies will finish what the bear started.”

Suddenly, it didn’t really matter whether General Lough liked him or not, because Diaval already hated him and was fighting the instinct to puff out his currently non-existent feathers and go right for the eyes. Instead, he squared his shoulders and shoved the gun right back into Lough’s chest.

“No,” he said. Not too aggressive, not too timid. Truth be told, he was too angry and proud to do a thing that he was told by anybody that wasn’t his queen.

“What?”

“No. I’ll go back to swords. Somethin’ like this doesn’t even give anyone the chance to fight back. It’s a coward’s weapon.”

There was a brief silence as the humans gaped at him, stunned by his boldness. Harnessing a little strength from that, he continued:

“What, are you so scared of little fairies the size of your fist comin’ to throw pebbles at your city walls that you resort to things like this? What do you think they even want from you? Your prosperous land and crops? You’re a bunch of - _oof!”_

He had sort of expected it, really, though hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much. The butt of the gun buried into his gut so hard that his back hit the ground before his legs did. Immediately crippled by the sickening pain, Diaval groaned and wrapped his arms around his belly.

A warm breeze threatened.

Uncontrolled transformations were rather like trying to hold back an especially violent sneeze. Sometimes, whatever defensive barrier he maintained quickly broke and he was forced into an often random shape. More rarely, he was able to restrain the transformation and everybody else remained none-the-wiser. It was perhaps the threat of immediate death that meant he was able to control whatever shape was looming, then, and the fact his presence in Breoslaigh would spell massive trouble for the Moors. Holding it was even more painful than the blow to his gut and it took him a good few seconds to recover enough to even open his eyes.

The shape would have been a wolf, if he had let it. He could feel it on the edge of his mind wanting to take over the more defensive human instincts. It was a feral but calculating presence, certainly not his favourite but it had grown on him just a little as the years passed. Thankfully, he had time to force the wolf back where it belonged and begin to struggle upright. 

One of the recruits had snickered while he was on the ground, but the others remained deathly silent, either terrified or intrigued. Diaval kept his gaze firmly on General Lough, desperately trying not to embarrass himself by throwing up. It did take him a moment to acknowledge that the gun was pointed at him, however, though when he did, he raised his eyebrows and straightened up in preparation to run.

“I’ve got my eyes on you, coward,” Lough growled, sneering. “We have no use for men who can’t stomach war - except maybe as bait for the hounds. How does that sound, dogbait? _I’ll_ show you how to use a gun, and you’d better learn.”

With that, the general aimed the gun towards the sky, took a moment to aim, then shot it with practised ease. Diaval thought he was just showing off until he heard a faint croak and scented blood on the air. Horrified, he watched as a bird plummeted down onto the lonely dust by the targets.

A raven. It continued to twitch desperately, even if all hope was lost.

Diaval had rarely felt such anger in all his years. 

Staring at the poor bird, he barely flinched as the gun was thrust back into his hands. He was of good mind to aim it and shoot the murderous General Lough right back for mindlessly killing an innocent creature, but he couldn’t, not just because of the trouble it would cause but because he was simply incapable. Instead, he remained silent and inwardly plotted, turning to stare at the back of Lough’s head as the man quickly marched off.

“Man,” said Swan moments later after breathing a sigh of relief. “Thought he was gonna kill you! Are you alright? How’s your stomach? That was really cool, y’know - standing up to him like that, I mean. He said the same thing to me about being dog bait when I bit his hand. I guess we can just be dog bait together.”

Whether impressed or impassive, the recruits gradually ventured off to return their weapons. Dropping the gun, Diaval stumbled forwards and jogged across the range - followed hastily by Swan - towards the fallen raven that was suffering there in the dust. He felt a roaring grief upon seeing her up close; this was one of his kin, a raven that had simply been going about her business, and now she would die for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

She had since stopped twitching. Her little body heaved with quick breaths. Though blood poured from the massive wound, Diaval sat down and gently gathered her into his arms to hold her, inwardly upset and angry enough that his eyes began to sting. 

After the raven had passed, he carried her away from the range to the relative shelter of a deadened tree and laid her there, turning his gaze towards the sky.

“Uh … Bearfoot?” Swan attempted, still following him. “Maybe we should get back to practising? It’s just a bird.”

“Is it?” Murmured Diaval, taking a few good steps back as he spotted a dark shape in the sky. The shape grew and grew until another raven formed and fluttered down into the dust to hop fearfully towards the body by the tree. It inspected the body, and then it croaked in what Diaval knew to be a sound of enormous grief, its beak and wings opened wide.

He remembered the moment Maleficent’s death was proclaimed from the top of Ulstead’s castle. He had felt it within him but had not quite been able to believe it, even if he had felt the faerie magic inside him begin to wane. He remembered how terrified and grief-stricken he had felt, how completely helpless he had been.

He was one of very few lucky ones whose life-bond was forged with a phoenix.

Bowing his head, he turned away and headed back in the direction of the sparring field. His heart was heavy with grief, and … longing. Guilt. Now that he was strong enough, he would fly back to the Moors that night to make sure that his family were alright, even if he couldn’t yet return. Perhaps they would be frightened or angry if he was to go back too early, especially without any sort of useful information.

Hearing Swan hurrying along behind him, he slowed down a bit and allowed the boy to catch up.

“You’re just a big ol’ softie, aren’t you?” Swan surmised, sounding oddly happy about what he had learnt. “Not many of those around here, let me tell you. It’s sort of refreshing, actually. Even back home, my father was making me practise with a sword every morning and wouldn’t talk to me until I was done. Not that he - he wasn’t much of a talker, anyway. How’s your stomach? That looked like it hurt.”

“I’m fine. He didn’t have to kill the raven, though, did he? This place is terrible.”

Swan caught up with him and stared curiously, a boyish fascination to his features. 

“I mean, it’s not like he killed a person.”

“Fairies are people, and you lot are all about killing them.”

“Right, but … fairies are evil! They have Ulstead and Wickpon under their spell to control them.”

“Is that right?” Diaval questioned. “Seems like the people in the castle over there have young men under their spell to control _them_. Is what you know the truth, or is it just what powerful people are tellin’ you so you join them in rallyin’ hate? Have you ever seen a fairy fly over that river and attack this city?”

Perturbed by that, Swan looked towards the ground as they walked, his brow furrowed in thought. 

“No, but … I saw one back home. The kind of faerie spelt differently, I think. Y’know, big horns and wings. She was terrifying. I don’t think anything should be as powerful as that.” Appearing haunted, the boy shuddered, and then paused on the edge of the field where they might remain unheard. “She killed people.”

“An’ a man like you nearly killed my m- my wife. He did unspeakable things to her. That general just shot a raven without even thinkin’. They - _we_ drove an entire race to near extinction. It doesn’t mean I think all humans are bad just ‘cause there are a few that abuse their power. You’ll be better off if you learn how to see things from all sides. That’s how peace comes about.” After a pause, Diaval nodded his head towards a weapon rack nearby. “You’d better show me how to use a sword, then. I don’t feel like gettin’ blasted to pieces by that waste of space general.”

Slowly and thoughtfully did Swan drift forwards and pull a pair of swords from the rack, though he certainly seemed less enthusiastic about it than before.

* * *

Past midnight, Diaval snuck out of the barracks while the others snored the early morning away. Only once he was far out of sight of the city walls did he finally transform back into his raven-self. It felt good to stretch his wings again after all those days with his feet firmly on the ground, but he was nervous, too; he still didn’t have anything to offer the Moors, and was laden with guilt following his actions during the battle in the Feth Fiadha. 

What if he had accidentally created tensions between the Moors and Ulstead? He could barely remember any of it at all, but he knew that he - or the dragon, at least, had been angry and mindless enough not to discriminate between monster and human. Just how much of the city had he destroyed? Had he hurt anyone? Why was he so incapable when it came to controlling his transformations and the creatures that he became?

It was dangerous. Too dangerous, perhaps. Maybe it would happen again if he got upset, or maybe it would need no trigger at all. The more he thought on it, the more he realised that he was a threat to his own kingdom as much as he was all the others. The shapeshifting spirit, Mori’ka, had meant well, but it was often that Diaval felt as though a gift he could not do good with was instead a curse, and that he had simply shed one curse in favour of another. 

All he wanted was to be a good mate and father. How could he be good at anything while like this?

Soaring low over the dusty plains, he then crossed the river and entered the Forest of Waking. Aside from the occasional hoot of an owl, there was no signs of life to be heard, not the laughter of fairies nor the trill of songbirds. He found the River of Stars, which glittered under the light of its namesake, and followed it all the way to the hills and mountains that bordered the forest. His little heart began to thrum so hard that it was all he could hear.

It had taken some time, but he was home. He landed on the rocky ledge outside of the nest and hopped inside the cave as quietly as he could, cautiously peering around the corner. Already could he smell the sweet scent of her - _Maleficent’s_ \- wings. There, in the darkness, he could make out the shape of her in the nest, and he could hear her slow, soft breathing. She was fast asleep, and she had no idea that he was there. 

It was what he had intended. The purpose of his visit was to make sure that she was unharmed and well. It hurt, however, to be confined to the shadows in her magnificent presence, fearing her reaction if she was to wake up and see him there after his disappearance. Stepping up to the nest, he stood on the edge of it and watched Maleficent sleep a little while longer, looking over her to make sure there were no wounds or remnants of the iron bullet.

What he wanted was to bundle himself up underneath one of her wings and go to sleep. They would meet the morning together, just as it should have been after that night in Ulstead. He could picture it clearly: Maleficent rolling over to face him, glowing in the morning light, a soft smile on her lips. Now, he wondered whether he would be met with anger, instead.

It killed him to leave. Any amount of time spent away from his family was agony, but it seemed all the worse, now, for he had no real idea of how he would be received upon his return. Diaval took to the cold night air again and soared over the forest with only the stars for company, croaking his despair into the wind. The flowery spire of the woodland castle guided his way onwards. Upon reaching it, he flew down and hopped into the magical grove of willows that served as the queen’s bedchamber.

She, too, was fast asleep, warm and cosy in her flower bed as fireflies and moths fluttered about in a sparse cloud around her. Diaval flew up to the bed and strutted closer, picking up her blanket in his beak and pulling it up closer to her chin. Feeling something hard beneath his feet, he tilted his head and found that Aurora was keeping a sword close beside her, clutching the hilt in her hand. It broke his heart to see it.

 _I’ll find a way to stop all this,_ he promised, nuzzling lightly at his daughter’s nose with his beak. 

A small snuffle behind him caught his attention. Turning, he saw a blonde tuft of hair and a pair of big, blue eyes peering at him over the intricate rim of the nearby cot. It was little Riordan, old enough to stand on his own two feet but not old enough to understand the horrors he had seen. Last time they had been together, Diaval was in the shape of a ferocious lion and fiercely battling the mysterious shapeshifter that accompanied Wynne. 

Moving slowly, Diaval hopped down to the ground and transformed back into his man-shape. Gently, he parted the veil of flowers crowning the cot and reached down to pick the infant up, much to Riordan’s weary delight. The boy was thankfully quiet about the matter, settling into Diaval’s chest to fiddle curiously with the laces on his tunic. 

For some time did Diaval move slowly about the grove, lightly bouncing the infant on his chest to comfort him. Riordan had cuddled into him and drifted asleep by the time the sky had turned a dark indigo in favour of the young morning. Heart aching, Diaval carried him back to the cot and held him just a moment longer. 

“Anythin’ I did, I didn’t mean it,” he murmured, turning to face the sleeping Aurora. “I’m not really what they say I am. You know that, don’t you?”

With a sigh, he placed Riordan down into the cot and crept away to transform again. Breoslaigh really was the last place he wanted to be, but in such uncertain times, it seemed important that somebody was there to keep an eye on things - especially given the kingdom’s iron arsenal and its proximity to the river that divided it from the Moors.

And so, he left the Moors behind, promising himself that it wouldn’t be for much longer. 

* * *

By the time he reached Breoslaigh again, dawn had already graced the horizon. He transformed a good distance away and jogged back towards the barracks outside the walls of the city as quickly as he could, though it proved a struggle; everything was hurting and had been since he had emerged from the infirmary, but lack of sleep made it significantly worse. He had to stop and lean against the barracks walls before even thinking about venturing inside. Maybe there was time to sleep a bit and recover from a difficult trip across the Moors.

“There you are!”

Before Diaval could even turn and see who had called to him, he found himself being suddenly manhandled from behind. A heavy weight shoved him into the wall and held him there, a forearm digging into his head and a strong body keeping him pinned up against the rough wood. Immediately uncomfortable with the close contact, he struggled and slammed his hands into the wall in an effort to throw off the sour-smelling man that had ambushed him, to no avail.

“Get off,” Diaval snarled, struggling.

“You were supposed to be at drill half an hour ago, Dogbait. Where were you?” The insufferable General Lough growled back. “Can’t fire a gun, can’t even use a sword right, and now you’re avoiding your duties. You’re really just half a man, aren’t you? Maybe you should go and join the Red Druids, instead. You’ll be more at home among the girls.”

A cold sweat immediately broke out on Diaval’s brow. He knew that it would work out better for him to remain calm and collected, but he couldn’t help but panic. He could handle verbal aggression and being called all the names under the sun, but if anybody dared touch him unprovoked … His eyes shot open as a familiar sensation dawned. Wincing, he dug his claws into the wood and fought with all his might to restrain the lingering threat of transformation. 

His hands shook. He could feel the magic bubbling beneath his skin, trying to alter his shape. The dust around them was carted up into the air as a dark breeze began to blow in from the sea. His stomach lurched with dread; he couldn’t hold it back. Not this time. There was something there in his mind, the shadow of a creature he could not yet identify, and what it wanted was to bite and tear into the human behind him. It was agonising to chain the creature back - he shook with the effort of it, feeling the pressure beginning to mount in his temples.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Lough bleated cluelessly, roughly releasing his hold on Diaval. “Pull yourself together and get over to the church for prayers.”

In any other circumstance, Diaval would have laughed at the irony of being told to go to a church by a man who spoke with his fists. As it was, he was in the midsts of trying not to tear him limb from limb. Stepping back from the wall, he stumbled over and gazed silently up at Lough from the ground. 

It was a mistake to have come here. What a fool he was to think he actually could have made things better in the vain hope of pretending he had never made things worse. 

Before General Lough’s boot could strike him, however, he heard a great _thunk_ and witnessed the man’s feet suddenly lose their balance. Before his very eyes, the broad form of the general was suddenly felled like a tree, gracelessly flopping into the dust like a doll. Another man stood in his place - the rather more welcoming image of Swan, who was wearing an expression of complete terror. He held a gun in his hands, butt-forwards.

Diaval could feel only a split second of gratitude. He smelt iron, and it only succeeded in aggravating him all the more. It felt as though he was losing control of his own body, even his own thoughts as an animalistic panic immediately set in. 

This wasn’t him, this wasn’t him at all. But it was his legs that carried him upright and away from the barracks, the human part of him fearing for Swan’s safety and the Moors’ reputation. He had to find somewhere, anywhere, that was safe, but there was nowhere safe for the likes of him in Breoslaigh, where he would be shot on sight the moment the threatening transformation took hold. It was only fortunate that the small camp was still near enough empty.

He ran blindly, increasingly angry and upset. All of his thoughts, all of his worries and upset were unravelled like unbound wool, beckoned by the visit his family would never know about and by the unwelcome hands of a malevolent foe. He wasn’t supposed to be like this! Was this how Maleficent had felt whenever her rage had gotten the better of her? Was this what had caused the explosions of green magic? The curses? What was he doing so far away from her?!

Startled by the sound of barking dogs, Diaval froze. Lough hadn’t been lying about the hounds. They were big, vicious animals, almost as large as wolves, slobbering as they watched him from their pen. They knew what he was. The moment their pen was opened, they would run and bite into him, and …

“Bearfoot!” He heard Swan calling.

Diaval opened his eyes, half expecting to see the blinding white of snow on the ground. He was losing. He had to run. He did so, stumbling out of the camp and out into the flat plains, past the shooting range and beyond the dead tree where a raven laid to rest. It could have been minutes or hours he ran, all he knew was that he had to get out of sight before anybody saw his miserable transformation finally take hold. 

He dropped onto all fours as the wind and shadows swathed him. Sand slipped beneath his feet - before he knew it, he was tumbling into a small ravine set into the dry cracks of the earth, and it was there a thin stream trickled beneath overarching rocks. Safe in the shadows, Diaval transformed entirely into his bear-shape and crawled over to the edge of the stream.

He couldn’t be like this. He couldn’t be in enemy territory when the slightest conflict could make him lose control so easily. It infuriated him to be _this_ \- this uncontrollable entity, whose supposed power had only ever brought misery to him and his family. Mori’ka never should have trusted him with such a thing! Maybe Maleficent should not have trusted him with her that one night he had been able to lend something of himself to her. Maybe Aurora should not have trusted him at all.

He clawed at the great, black mass he could see in the stream’s water, and then dropped down onto his stomach, heaving furiously. He stayed there until the world and all his thoughts began to stop spinning in one big blur. As his rage began to wane, an immense guilt and sorrow took its place, instead. He wanted his family so much, but he was scared to even be in the same kingdom as them while like this. They wouldn’t want him there, and he couldn’t bear such a thought.

Minutes later, he heard cautious footsteps on the rocks over his head. Barely turning, he saw somebody slide down the sand at the edge of the ravine, gun in hand. It was Swan, looking surprisingly angry, and the young man crept forwards while bringing the gun up to his eye to properly aim it.

“Where’s Bearfoot?” Swan demanded, sounding strangely emotional. “Did you eat him? I swear I’ll …”

Their eyes met. 

It took a long moment, but Swan slowly began to lower the gun, his face falling in a mixture of surprise and understanding.

“You _are_ Bearfoot.”

Diaval groaned low in his chest and dropped his head back to the ground. The boy easily could have shot him with that horrible weapon of his, but there came no almighty bang or burning pain. Instead, Swan inched closer and closer, his breath short and his heart racing, until he could sit down next to the enormous beast haunting the ravine.

They sat in silence for a while. Then, Diaval felt a gentle hand come to rest in the soft mixture of fur and feathers between his ears. The hand moved in a comforting manner, fingers scratching pleasantly at his skin, just like the way Maleficent pet him whenever the desire struck her. The bear’s pained groans began to ebb, then, and he lay there quietly, his black eyes gradually closing.

“Sorry I learned your secret, mate,” Swan offered softly after a small time. “Life’s gotta be tough being a werebear. Cadaver was pretty close, though, I’ll give him that. I guess you’re not really from around here, right?” He paused, then huffed a bit with nervous laughter. “Right. You can’t talk like this. That’s fine. I’ve always been able to talk enough for two people. Everyone gets fed up with it pretty quick, but not you. You put up with me talking in that infirmary for hours and hours. No - you _listened_. So, it’s fine that you’re a werebear. Your secret’s safe with me. I mean, I’m probably gonna die anyway ‘cause I just knocked out General Lough, but it was for a good cause.”

Once the weight of Swan’s words had settled in, Diaval lifted his head to stare at him. Swan’s brow furrowed slightly as they regarded each other.

“Why’ve you got a beak? And feathers? Bit of a weird bear, aren’t you? Are you half bear, half bird? Are you …” He trailed off, eyes widening. “Are you from the _Moors?_ All that stuff you said about the fairies …” His eyes widened further, if possible. “You’re one of them! You’re a fairy-bird-bear … thing!”

Diaval lowered his head again. He expected his new friend to either run away or pick up that weapon of his. Diaval was not a fairy, but he was something close enough and clearly a magical creature of the Moors, all of which was enough reason for the likes of Swan to take up arms in a very human fear of things that were different. 

Nothing of the sort happened. Instead, the young man leaned towards the stream and cupped some water into his hands to offer it to Diaval, patiently kneeling in front of him. The bear cautiously licked some of it past his beak, only then realising just how thirsty he was following a night of travelling. The cool water eased his parched throat, and he let Swan guide his head over to the stream where he could drink his fill.

“Did you go home last night?” Asked Swan, sounding so suddenly sad that it caught Diaval off guard. “I miss my family, too. I wish I could go home and visit. This place … all they do is kick you around and make you feel small. Even my dad wasn’t that bad. He would just ignore me, ‘cause … But my mum, I really miss her. She wasn’t anything like these people. And I just … left her behind. You said there are some bad humans around, man, well … I’m one of ‘em, I think. I’m not gonna hurt you, though. I don’t know why you’re here, but I won’t tell anyone what you are.”

Diaval could not speak, so he gazed up at Swan and hoped to convey a sincere gratitude with his eyes. 

As it was, Swan did not get into trouble for hitting General Lough because he had struck the man from behind. The general had run rampant through the camp for two days after that, fiercely grabbing boys and berating them as though they had all somehow been responsible. Diaval watched from a careful distance, filled with such hate that he knew without a doubt he could not leave this place without first seeing a bully meet his comeuppance - but first, he had other matters to attend to. 

He had spent nearly a week in Breoslaigh and all the valuable knowledge he had was the sort of weaponry the kingdom was utilising, though admittedly he had spent most of that week recovering from his fight with the white raven. Increasingly confused and frightened following that particular incident, Diaval threw all his efforts into finding something - _anything_ \- that would be of use to the Moors. 

He could not sleep, however. At night, he kept his eyes peeled on the open door of the barracks from his bunk, fearing that he would see the flutter of white wings in the darkness, or worse … Wynne herself, back from the Otherworld to haunt him. His mind fell blank with terror whenever he thought about it. She had been right there in that temple. She had touched his face with a twisted affection, her hand somehow as solid and just as cold as it had always been. His stomach lurched whenever he remembered those clammy digits on his person. If he did sleep at all, it would spiral into foul dreams where he wasn’t in control of anything around him, and he was pinned, claws digging into his wrists and teeth into his neck.

The other men learnt not to sleep too close to him. Swan, always so eager and enthusiastic, took the opportunity to take the top bunk above Diaval, and more than once did Diaval wake in the morning to find him sat there on the edge of the bed, watching him with concern. He did not ask questions, however, and instead continued to teach and spar as though nothing had happened, as though he had no idea who the shapeshifter really was and where he had come from. Diaval was unspeakably grateful for the company.

There was an eternal glitter to the young man’s eyes, something innately kind, and there was something oddly familiar about it, not to mention the warm, brown skin and array of windswept dark curls. It felt as though he had met him before - but when?

* * *

Day eight. Diaval had been sent to gather supplies two leagues or so away from the city and insisted that Swan came with him. The break in combat training was welcome; their bodies were sore and aching, and General Lough had taken to antagonising them more than anybody else just because he could. They headed to a mire deep in the plains in search of tiny, grey berries on dark brown shrubs. They were called ghostberries, apparently, perhaps for their pale colouring. Said to cause an upset stomach in small doses and kill a man if used effectively, Diaval wondered just why Breoslaigh wanted them.

Swan chatted animatedly the entire journey there. He talked about other soldiers, and he talked about his own achievements in the sparring field as though forgetting Diaval had been there to see most of it.

“ _Have_ you ever been in a battle?” Swan asked innocently from behind him, rounding off a story about his excellent aim. They had almost reached the bleak and dead looking mire where the berries were said to grow. 

Brow pulling together with dull amusement, Diaval glanced back a moment, then continued on.

“Yes, for a bit.”

“Cool,” the younger man breathed. “Did you ever get shot?”

“What? No.”

“Stabbed, then? Run-through?”

“Uh … yeah. Different time, though.”

“ _Cool_. What did it feel like? Did it hurt? I bet it hurt. Was it during another battle? How many battles have you been in?”

Unsure how to pick apart the barrage of questions, Diaval rubbed his head and sighed. For all his supposed patience, he was somewhat irritable from lack of sleep and being in a place that he did not like one bit. Swan was its one saving grace; Diaval wasn’t sure how he might have coped without the other man’s innate friendliness, and then his genuine kindness upon finding out just where he was from. For that, he did not deserve to be snapped at for what was only a boyish curiosity. 

“It feels like what you’d expect it to feel like, only triple it. I’ve been in, er … one big battle. Plenty of smaller ones. It’s a full time job helpin’ defend the Moors.”

“Right,” Swan responded unsurely, a billion questions suggested in that single word. “What kind of fairy are you? How many kinds are there?”

“There are hundreds of kinds of fairies. How do I explain it?” Diaval rubbed his head again, slowing down a bit so that Swan could catch up with him as they walked. “The Moors is a place filled with this wondrous magic. I heard that thousands of years ago, it slowly turned all sorts of things into fairies. Animals, plants, mushrooms, trees, even the elements. Some are the descendants of spirits, like the Dark Fae - the ones with the horns and feathered wings.”

Swan was wide-eyed, staring and listening with a heartening interest. It was barely any time ago at all that he had spoken fearfully of the Moors and its people. 

“What kind are you? Was one of your parents a bird fairy and the other a bear fairy?”

The question was asked with such innocent sincerity that Diaval stared right back at him a moment - and then burst into a coarse, hacking laughter, forced to stop out of sheer mirth and wrap his arms around his belly. Once he started, he found that he couldn’t stop, so amused by the question and by Swan’s uncertain little chuckles that for a brief time, he completely forgot himself.

When he found the wherewithal to stop laughing and carry on, he wiped the mirthful tears away and grinned crookedly, shaking his head. That smile did begin to fall, however, as he was forced to consider how much of the truth he could share. Swan had kept what he knew secret so far despite still not knowing what Diaval’s intentions were, and had endangered himself to save him from General Lough’s aggression. How far would such loyalty extend, however?

The dark mire ahead eased closer. It was like an ink blot on a sheet of parchment. Black, oozing sludge filled a slight dip in the land, and gnarled, crooked trees were interspersed about the darkened soil. Upon closer inspection, there was an ancient stone ring around the mire, each of the mysterious jutting stones covered in moss. At their bases were shrivelled shrubs that somehow boasted that small, grey fruit despite appearing dead.

Ghostberries, and it was now clear why they were called such. Struck with a vaguely ominous sensation upon approaching the mire, Diaval regarded the fairy ring around it with caution. It was nearly the afternoon, which was fortunate, for this was not a place anybody should have been at night. 

“I’m not a fairy,” he muttered, moving over to one of the shrubs to inspect the lank branches. “It’s a long story. Probably not one you really want to hear, either. There are a lot of misconceptions about the Moors and its people, y’know.”

Swan reached into his satchel and pulled out a pair of sling pouches. Tossing one to Diaval, he continued to gape with him, appearing somewhat strained in an apparent and admirable endeavour to stop asking questions. It only took about five seconds for that seal to bend and snap as easily as a dried twig. 

“Okay, but … I mean, you’ve been nice to me from the start, so they can’t be all bad, right?!” The young man’s face fell somewhat. “Not - not that I think they’re _bad,_ but -“

“Yeah, they’re really not. They’re just tryin’ to live their lives, actually, just like everyone else. There are people from all kingdoms that abuse their power, it’s just that humans fear magic more than they fear swords and guns. So they start makin’ up stories and lies about what they fear.” Picking a ghostberry, he inspected it more closely, even sniffing at it to find that it had no scent whatsoever. He turned and carefully regarded Swan a moment, considering. “They made up stories about me, too. Are you scared easily?”

At that, Swan immediately puffed out his chest and folded his arms.

“I’m not scared of anything! Especially fairies and … and not-fairies like you!”

Diaval smirked and began to pick the berries, tossing them into the sling pouch around him.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

“Figured _what_ out?”

“My name is Diaval, but maybe it’s that nobody can pronounce it properly,” Diaval explained with an edge of bitterness. “They call me Diablo, instead. Y’know, demon raven, wicked fiend, seducer of maidens, accomplice and general nuisance. Big, scary dragon, blah blah. But, I’m sure that you’ve found that I’m not so bad once you get to know me.”

There came an unsettling silence. It was broken moments later by the metallic scrape of a sword being drawn. 

Diaval turned and raised his eyebrows, finding Swan staring fearfully at him from a small distance away. The boy lowered into a defensive stance at once, though reluctantly so. Perhaps it was that he was frightened, or maybe his heart wasn’t truly in it. Whatever the case, Diaval made no move to approach, looking between his friend and the fierce blade pointing at him.

What surprised him even more were the tears forming in Swan’s eyes. He had expected the sword, but not the upset that came with it. 

“I’m not evil,” he explained further, more gently this time. “Really. All the bad things you might’ve heard aren’t true, or - they were twisted.”

Swan swallowed thickly. His eyes glittered with those unshed tears.

“If you’re Diablo, that makes you the accomplice of the Moon Witch. I heard all about you. All the … the stealing you did, terrorising the people of Wickpon, all because you were infatuated with her! What, have you got a thing for scary magic ladies? Was it worth it?!”

Diaval wasn’t sure he wanted to know what else the humans thought of him.

The accusation angered him, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he offered Swan his full attention and was careful to appear as unthreatening as possible lest that sword was driven through his chest. That would be a particular sort of inconvenience. 

“That’s not true. I was the last of the men taken against their will. I was cursed into servitude. Just like they were. And - I really hope I didn’t do anythin’ to terrorise Wickpon. I spent my time tryin’ to help them, for what it’s worth. And when I needed help, they gave it back to me. There was a woman there, y’see, and she’s a good friend of mine. Queen Mera.” He said the name slowly, and he gazed with intensity at Swan’s countenance, reading every micro expression that might have flickered across it.

Swan’s evident shock served to help affirm Diaval’s suspicions. 

“Your father was one of those taken by Wynne,” the shapeshifter continued in a soft rasp. “You left Wickpon. I remember your mother mentionin’ a son that left, an’, well, you’re the splittin’ image of her. You should know that your kingdom is back to normal and that she is still fightin’ at the helm, as always.”

Making a small choking sound, Swan lowered his sword, then dropped it completely. His lips wobbled with a sudden flurry of emotion and he quickly rubbed at his eyes, though it did nothing to stem the tears that began to fall. Witnessing it was painful enough for Diaval, an empathetic creature by nature, but he knew now more than he ever had the importance of honesty.

“Wh-what?” Swan croaked weakly. “How did you …? Did you bring me out here to tell me that?”

“Yeah. Let me ask _you_ a question. I wanna ask what the hell you’re doing fightin’ for Breoslaigh, but I know that a particular faerie gave your family a hard time. So, what’s your name?”

“It’s … uh.”

Suddenly looking frightened and much younger than his presumed years, Swan didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He settled on covering his face with his hands and shaking his head.

“Look at me,” Diaval insisted. “If you can. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not here to hurt anyone, actually. I’d really like to know the name of my friend’s son, if he is willin’ to give it.”

Swan peeped at him through a narrow crevice in his fingers.

“It’s … Okay, you’re right. I don’t know how you worked it out, but … I’m Prince Pioden. Pio for short. You probably haven’t heard good things about me.”

“Well, you haven’t heard good things about me, either.” Diaval offered him a smile, then. “Lough was a bit off when he gave you the name Swan, then.”

Confused, Pioden slowly lowered his hands and wiped away the single tear that fell.

“Wha’? Why?”

“‘Cause Pioden is a name for magpies in the Old Language. I think they’re better than swans, actually, though maybe I’m just biased. Magpies are a close relative of the raven, did you know?”

Despite it all, and despite all the questions he no doubt wanted to ask, Pioden gave him a nervous, but accepting, little smile.


	2. A Way In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I lied, I’ve had to split the second chapter into two parts as my writing was beginning to suffer trying to squish everything in. The third chapter will come very soon as I only have the ending left to write, and then chapter 4 will come not too long after that as much of it is already written. Congrats and thank you to anyone still reading at this point. 8)

It took a long time to fill Prince Pioden in on most of the story up to that point. Diaval told him much of everything, from the moment he met Maleficent right up to his arrival in Breoslaigh. By the time he was done, both their pouches were full of ghostberries, and the pair took a moment to sit together at the edge of the slowly bubbling, ooze-filled mire, even if it did smell like the inside of a pig’s pen.

“So, um …” Pio managed, breaking the brief and overwhelmed silence. “The king … my dad, he really is gone, then.”

Diaval felt a deep pang in his heart at that. Lowering his knees, he sighed and leaned forwards to get a better look at Pio’s face. It was empty of just about anything. A sore sight indeed after his constant series of grins and curious staring. It seemed that those things had been hiding a deep sadness all along, which came more and more to the fore as the seconds passed and the story really set in. 

“Yeah. I think so,” Diaval murmured as gently as he could. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

Pio huffed with laughter through his nose, though could not quite manage a smile.

“You shouldn’t call me that. A prince that abandons his people isn’t really a prince, right? That’s why I came here. There was nowhere else for me to go, uh … nowhere that Wickpon’s guards weren’t searching, at least. I started out in the streets, and then one of the Red Druids took me to get signed up to the army they’re building. I was just glad to be somewhere I could make friends again, y’know, I … I didn’t care about what the army was for. I can’t believe I just went along with all this! If my mum could see me, she’d …”

“I think she’d just like her son back. How old were you when you left?”

Pio rubbed his leaking nose. “I was fourteen when the Moon Witch turned up, so … must’ve been fifteen when she took my dad. I just left my mum to deal with all of it. I’m too ashamed to go back, Bearfoot! I mean - Diaval. Sorry.”

Feeling another deep pang of sorrow at that, Diaval knew it was partly because he recognised everything that his friend was saying. He knew well enough how it felt to have gone against his nature and left his family behind. Even if he had not chosen to leave in the first place, he was fully aware by that point of the extremes he had gone to to save Maleficent from that falling temple.

And he would do it again if it meant saving her life. 

What must they think of him now? The thought plagued his every waking moment. He understood fully Pio’s stress on the matter, then, only the prince had the reasonable excuse of being a child when confronted with the terrifying option of staying or fleeing. Trying not to dwell on his own matters further, Diaval shuffled about to face him.

“Believe me, there’s nothin’ I’d like more than for Aurora to run whenever she is confronted with danger. I wouldn’t rest easy until I knew she was alright, though.” He leaned in a bit, holding Pio’s tearful gaze. “I’m not here to convince you to go back. I’m here to find out if Breoslaigh is responsible for the Feth Fiadha. If you ever did want to go home, though … well, I’ve got wings that can take you there. Don’t hate yourself for the past. You were just a kid. Running might’ve saved your life.”

There was a moment as Pio processed this, his dark brows furrowing.

“Yeah, I … I never thought of it like that.” Glancing at Diaval again, he frowned deeply. “She must’ve been cruel to you, but you saved my kingdom anyway. D’you know what the king did? Just begged at her feet and then let her take him away. It was horrible.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What? Nah, don’t be. My father hated me so I hated him right back. Seeing that just made me wanna run, ‘cause I didn’t want to be like him. Scared and begging for my life, you know?”

“I know. The Moon Witch was powerful, though, I wouldn’t -“

“You didn’t know him. Not all dads can be like you. If I didn’t run from the Moon Witch, I would’ve run from him! I swear.” Pio’s dark eyes began to moisten again at that. Quickly rubbing the heels of his palms over them, he shook his head.

The ghosts that the king of Wickpon had left behind angered Diaval, but he didn’t show it, instead removing Pio’s hand from his eyes and holding his wrist in a soft grip. Something came over him, then: a feeling he’d had not the time to really enjoy for a while, the same warm, fuzzy feeling that had arisen when witnessing one of Aurora’s many accomplishments.

Perhaps it was a silly notion, feeling pride over a young man he had known for all of a week, but he had unwittingly taken the boy under his wing. More than he had previously thought, it seemed.

“The Moors is always behind you, Prince Pioden. It’s behind Wickpon and Ulstead, too. We take care of each other ‘cause we’re family, and you’re part of that family whether you like it or not.”

Pio sniffled with laughter and wiped his eyes a final time. He laughed again when he was presented with Diaval’s little finger, keenly offered, and quickly grasped it with his own to receive the promise in physical form. 

“That’s really last decade.”

“It is?” Diaval asked, raising his eyebrows.

Pio snorted with amusement, gesturing with his bad arm about Diaval’s person.

“Shapeshifting is nothing compared to this, uh … dad power thing you’ve got going on, I swear. Maybe one day you’ll find a power you’ve got control over, eh?”

Unsure how to pick that apart or even understand it, Diaval just shrugged loosely and grinned. With a sigh, he picked up his pouch of the little grey fruit he had been sent to gather and rolled the berries about a bit, curiosity getting the better of him.

“We should head back,” he suggested, somewhat reluctantly. “Before Lough the Dog finds reason to come sniffin’ after us in search of trouble.” With that, he got to his feet and brushed himself free of dust before rescuing his pouch of ghostberries from sliding into the mire. 

“Uh, yeah.” Pio scrambled to his feet and quickly hoisted his own pouch over his shoulder. “Um, thanks, Diaval. I’m sorry about that raven and for saying it was just a bird. Will you let me make it up to you? I can help you with this mission of yours! I know my way around the town, I can show you where the castle is and help you sneak in!”

“Is that right? You realise what you’d be riskin’, don’t you?”

“Yeah, well … the Moors helped my kingdom. Now, I can help the Moors! I don’t really care about Breoslaigh, I just wanted to, uh … I dunno, prove myself? Now I know how I can do it! I can help you and the fairies!”

Endeared by that, Diaval nodded. Taking a ghostberry between his fingers, he rolled it about a bit, considering Pio’s offer of help. While he was surely capable of finding the castle on his own, the prince had proved to be a fount of useful information so far, and it would help to have someone on side who knew a thing or two about the streets of Breoslaigh - a kingdom still alien to Diaval, who had not yet been able to sneak away from his duties and past the heavily guarded city walls. Pio couldn’t get in trouble if they separated before reaching the castle.

“Alright, but that’s all you’re doing. On the off-chance I transform by accident while I’m in the castle -“

“Yeah, er … is it the safest thing you could be doing?” Pio asked nervously, running a hand through his curls. “Maybe there’s -“

“I spent years spyin’ for Maleficent. I know what I’m doing. I’m the only one that can get in and out unseen. We’ve gotta know what they’re up to and find a way to stop it.”

As he spoke, the claw on his thumb pierced the thick, grey flesh of the fruit he was fiddling with. His train of thought was interrupted when he felt a warm stream begin to ooze down the side of his hand and his wrist. Glancing down, he was surprised to see that the juice of the berry did not match its exterior one bit: where the fruit was a pale, cadaver-grey, the fluid was in was deep crimson, and was strangely thick and hot to the touch.

“What the -“ he began, raising his wrist to sniff at it. Disturbed by the familiar, coppery tang of it, he pulled a face and dropped the berry at once. “How’s that possible?”

That the juice looked and smelt like blood would soon be the least of his problems. He stared accusingly at the pile of berries in his pouch, twisting his hand this way and that in rising discomfort. Was he imagining it, or was the berry juice staining his hand becoming hotter?

“Diaval?” Pio said in a high-pitched tone, paling. “You shouldn’t touch that stuff! We don’t know what it does!”

Information that was coming all too late. Diaval’s hand began to shake - the juice felt so hot that it was burning him, and it happened so suddenly that he yelped and fell backwards as a terrible, searing agony took hold out of nowhere. 

Smoke began to seep from the burn as though it were aflame. With a harsh cry, Diaval rolled over and desperately tried to scrub the juice from his skin, but it lingered where it stained and only spread the horrendous burn further. 

“Diaval!” He heard Pio yell. The black edges of his vision were already closing in in response to the smoking, hissing wound opening up down his hand and forearm. Losing control of himself, he scrabbled at the ground and bellowed his agony into the dust below. Just about aware of the smaller form of Pio yanking him up and over, he felt a cooling stream of water pour from a flask over the wound, and he curled up and whined in pain as the juice was hastily scrubbed away.

As soon as the remnants of the ghostberry was gone, the intense, searing burn ceased as swiftly as it had started. 

It took Diaval a good few minutes to recover. The clouds in the sky seemed to spin over his head, and his breakfast felt moments from reintroducing itself to the world. Once those few minutes were over and his vision began to clear, he slowly began to remember just where he was, and he sat up to survey the damage: his hand was still shaking, and it was marked an awful, necrotic black, the wound trailing down his wrist and the inside of his arm. Taking deep breaths to try and ease his roiling stomach, he glanced at Pio, who was sat beside him wearing an expression of utter terror. His hands were stained red following his frantic efforts to help, but the juice did not seem to be affecting him similarly.

“Ouch,” Diaval managed, trying to brush it off with nonchalance. “Isn’t it hurtin’ you?”

“Nope. You must be really,  _ really _ allergic.” Pio breathed a sigh of relief, though remained concerned, carefully twisting Diaval’s arm about to get a better look at the shining wound. “Lesson learnt, right? Don’t touch the weird blood stuff that comes out of ghostberries!”

“I got that,” muttered Diaval. “Y’know, from the part it burned.”

Pio continued staring, oblivious to the dryness in Diaval’s tone.

“Ew … it looks like it’s rotting. Like a rotted apple, or a -“

“Corpse. I know.” 

Before their eyes, however, the wound - or whatever it might have been - began to seal over as though a healing spell had been cast. The slippery, blackened flesh disappeared and returned to its usual state, all trace of burnt skin knitting back together just like that. It was a strange sensation; this was not like Maleficent’s magic, where the experience would have been entirely more pleasant.

Once the burn was gone, Diaval flexed his hand and rose to his knees. It felt like every day something would happen to force him to question his grip on reality.

“That was cool!” Said Pio with remarkable enthusiasm, scrambling to his feet. “Come to think of it, you healed pretty quickly from the state you were in when we found you. Did that spirit give you healing powers, too?”

Staring cluelessly at his fist, Diaval shook his head, then reached for one of the protruding stones nearby to help himself upright.

“Er, I don’t think … Well, maybe. None of this really came with a guide on features and instructions. I - Pio?”

Just like that, Pio was gone.

In fact, there was a very different world stretched out before Diaval now.

It had happened as swiftly as the blink of an eye. Gazing blankly out at the space around him, he suddenly found himself very much alone, as though the ground had simply swallowed Pio up whole. 

But it wasn’t the same place he had been in moments ago - or maybe it was, given that the mysterious ring of stones was still present, albeit they stood straighter and were cleaned of the creeping moss. It was easier to see the elegantly carved letters on their fronts, but Diaval was not of the headspace to stop and read any of it. His stomach swooping, he quickly pulled his hand away from the stone and turned this way and that, extremely confused and disoriented by the sudden shift in his surroundings.

Instead of a mire, there was an idyllic spring of clear water that bubbled up from the earth below. Gone were the dusty, barren plains of Breoslaigh. Meadows of long grass and wildflowers claimed the earth in every which direction. There were forests that seemed to stretch on for miles. Butterflies fluttered about him curiously, and then it took him a good moment to realise that they were actually tiny fairies, their long antenna twitching as they regarded him with happy little smiles.

What struck him was the heavy, dream-like haze that seemed to blanket the world, as though everything might disappear if he reached out to touch it. Something was  _ off  _ about it, and yet … this time, he really felt as though he was there.

The winds carried a whisper. Softly spoken words in the Old Language brushed gently past his ears. It wasn’t the first time he had heard the quiet, disembodied voices of the Unknown. At the time of Wynne’s death, he had heard it then, drifting in from the Moon itself. He had heard it in his dreams, emerging from the dark, veiled archway crowned by a raven’s skull. Now, it seemed to be emerging from the breeze, the sky, the trees. Everywhere. It somehow served to calm his racing heart and soothe his questioning thoughts. It made him feel welcome.

This was Breoslaigh. He was able to figure that out, now. Whether it was Breoslaigh in the past or how it existed in another world was not yet clear. Maybe the stones were showing him, just as the statues of Mori’ka had shown him what he had needed to see.

“Why?” He questioned nobody in particular, turning back towards the fairy ring.

He wished he’d never asked.

The little fairies fluttered away, squeaking urgently among themselves. Used to how these things went at this point, Diaval stood back and waited for whatever was about to show itself. He could almost predict it. Given the unnatural darkening of the sky into a misty grey, and the way the middle of the spring began to churn like a witch’s potion, nothing particularly good was about to happen. What had the chances been of it being anything good, anyway?

Diaval deftly slid behind one of the tall stones and peered out from behind it, staring in rising fear as the bubbling of the spring became especially violent. He began to hear the cawing of crows - a sound offensive to his ears - though they could not immediately be seen. Then, an entire murder of the creatures flocked out from the middle of the spring where the fierce frothing and churning was at its peak. There, within a dark, rising fog that seeped upwards from the water, the crows came together to form the shape of a woman as tall as a church.

The woman manifested from the shape, her features emerging as feathers and claws receded. Her skin was of a mottled grey, some of it flaking or sloughing off the bone. Long, black claws adorned her bare fingers and toes. Perhaps her most unusual feature was that she had three faces, each of them displaying various states of emotion, and she also had three pairs of arms, the topmost pair wielding a sword and shield, the middle pair holding an orb and sceptre, and the bottommost held a rotting skull and a lantern that sucked in the light rather than bestow it. A river of raven-black hair fell to her knees.

Diaval had seen many terrifying things in his life. This entity, however, took the throne and crown within three seconds of seeing her. She was without a doubt the Morrigan, a triple-goddess of war, kingship, and death, and definitely the last person Diaval had expected to see on a late Autumn afternoon, sent to forage for berries. 

It was strange - he was suddenly beholden by a memory thought long forgotten. A dull blankness overwhelmed his fear. He remembered what it was like to be in a nest with his parents and three siblings, chirping incessantly for food. He even remembered what it was like to be safe and warm in an egg, far away from the outside world with no idea what was coming. He recalled knowing nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat, and it matched the hard, rapid pace that his heart was beating now. If he focused on it, he could almost drown out the unearthly scream that the Morrigan unleashed unto this unusual world.

If war and grief could be vocalised, it would surely be the din that emerged from the goddess’ three mouths. Some sort of inky corruption spilled past her worn lips and down to the spring below, and it tainted the water and soon the grassy meadows that fed from it. The bushes at the feet of the stones shrivelled and died.

And then she looked at him. She looked at him as though he was actually there.

As though perturbed by his presence, she stared at him with all of her dark, deadened eyes. Caught in the spider’s web, Diaval was frozen with terror.

“Sorry for droppin’ in,” he croaked, and he could have kicked himself for it. “Nice house you’ve got here. I was just on my way out, actually.”

_ You. _

The unnatural speech of the goddess chilled him to the bone. It was the death rattle of a dying soldier. The echo in a mausoleum.

_ It has been a long time. _

Dumbfounded, Diaval stared up at the Morrigan in silence, slowly edging his way out from behind the stone.

_ The favour is done. Drugian the Red is laying siege to Eastwend. The kingdom will burn to the ground and be no more. When will you meet your end of the bargain? _

None of it made sense. None of it at all. However, it seemed unwise to upset a vicious war goddess by inferring otherwise. Wondering if the deity had somehow got him confused for someone else - who else possibly possessed a form as beautifully distinct as his? - he glanced about to make sure there was definitely nobody else present. Looking back up at her, all he could think to do was offer a charming smile, though was aware it probably appeared more like an awkward grimace.

“Good. I mean - yep, that’s good. Eastwend is burnin’ to the ground. Great. Thank you. Er, I’ll get back to you about the bargain thing, I’m afraid somethin’ has cropped up back in my raven social circles. Not the sort of place for crows -“

_ Donn awakened from a thousand year slumber for this. Do not keep us waiting. Your servants can find their way in to the Otherworld through this ring, and for as long as it stays open, these meadows will be barren and run with the blood of saints. _

Still too overwhelmed by everything to even begin to fathom what the Morrigan was talking about, Diaval just stared up at her with what he hoped was an expression of understanding. Well, what else was he supposed to do at a time like this? He still wished he was back safe and sound in a warm nest, away from the confusing reality and his feeble attempts at a human understanding of it. 

Reaching for the stone again, he hoped touching it might free him from -  _ whatever  _ this was. It didn’t. He tried stepping subtly out of the stone ring, then back in again. All the while, he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the Morrigan and her enormous weapons, though something told him she wouldn’t need them to wipe him off the face of the earth.

A yawning wind almost carried him right off his feet. Dead leaves spun within invisible vortexes. Diaval thought he might have been transforming, but no, the Morrigan was the one to change shape. As though she was made of water and smoke, she split apart into three smaller women, all of whom carried their respective objects, and then they drifted apart into the meadows like phantoms with shrill, ghostly cackles.

Diaval was left alone, though only for a moment. His heart skipped a beat when the cawing of a raven sounded in the skies above. Glancing up, he saw a familiar white shape circling in the sky. A red eye fixed on him, and it felt as though his heart might stop entirely.

Everything went black.

* * *

The red of that eye seemed to follow him into waking. As the world began to come into focus, Diaval blearily realised that spot of red light was nothing more than a burning brazier on the wall of the dark room he was in. He had not been followed by ghastly gods or anything of the sort.

It felt as though he had merely awoken from a long sleep, though recalled easily the nightmare that had come before. It had all happened so suddenly. To be thrust back into a world of magic and supernatural entities felt strange after spending just over a week hitting at straw dummies with swords, but strangest of all was how familiar it felt, including the sheer terror that had come with it. It felt more like home than Breoslaigh ever would.

Sitting up, he found that he was in a bed in the infirmary. It was night time. A cold breeze blew in through the open archway that led into the nothingness outside. Looking about the silent room, he counted four other bodies - one of which was sat up and staring right at him.

Diaval jumped in surprise. Fortunately, that other person was Pioden, and the young man quickly threw himself out of bed to join Diaval on his, his eyes wide and almost panicked in the dim light.

“You’re finally awake!” Pio proclaimed in a whisper. For some reason, his arm was recast and secured tightly across his chest, though he turned himself away when he saw Diaval looking. “It’s been two days! I really hope you were having a good dream, man!”

Stunned, Diaval tried to piece that new information together. Two days?! It felt as though he had been enduring that … vision, experience, whatever it was- for all of ten minutes. How could it have knocked him out of the count for two whole days?

“What happened?” He dared ask, inferring the fresh cast around Pio’s arm, but he was misunderstood - or brushed off.

“What happened is you flaked out, my friend. After that stuff burned you. Just flopped over and wouldn’t get up. Guess what happened then? I had to drag you all the way back to camp myself! And all of the ghostberries, too! You’re like twice my size! That’s two whole leagues, you know!”

“I’m sorry,” Diaval offered sincerely, but Pio just shook his head.

“I was just worried. I thought that the berry juice had done something awful to you. Just … after everything you told me, I’m not sure I can …” Pio trailed off, then, slumping over a bit. He seemed truly miserable.

“I’m sorry,” Diaval said again. “Weird stuff happens in fairy rings. I can’t really explain it. ‘N I definitely didn’t mean for you to reap the consequences of it.” He nodded towards the other man’s bad arm. “Was that Lough? Did he do somethin’?”

“He …” Pio began, but trailed off again. Shaking his head, he stared stubbornly towards the archway.

Anger, like an old friend, kindled as easily as dry wood to a spark. Diaval considered the brutish nature of the regime he had stumbled into and readily despised it. The leaders were not heroes or anything that these boys could aspire to. They were bullies, and they would only hurt the soldiers that they had pulled off the streets to turn to their violent cause, or even create bullies out of them, too.

It was the final straw. He was done with flip-flopping about the place, not really achieving anything because of his own fears about going home. It upset him because there was a time that he never would have hesitated, but now … these years later, he truly understood and feared the consequences of not doing what he was told. Of doing something wrong, even if it felt to be for a good cause.

Before he could get trapped in the spiral of such thoughts, he forced them aside and shuffled forwards to sit beside Pio on the edge of the bed, carefully watching him.

“I think it’s time to go, Pio.”

The other man turned to look at him, confused. His boyish features reminded Diaval of a child, one that had been separated from his family for far too long and could not find his way home.

“Go?” Pio whispered back, appearing afraid. “Go where?”

“Somewhere safe. The Moors or Wickpon. It’s up to you.”

“Can we … do that? Just go? What if …?”

“We’re not bound to this place. You’re an urchin they took from the streets, and I’m a stranger they found tumblin’ in from the wild. We don’t matter to them. The world never left, Pio. It’s still out there, waitin’. And nobody in the Moors is gonna hurt you.”

The pair looked at each other in silence. Diaval was sincere and determined, while Pio was nervous. It was understandable. The prince’s way of life for the past however many years was being upended, and though it was for the greater good, emerging from such a destructive situation could be difficult. 

“Okay,” he agreed at last, and he smiled. “But I’m not going anywhere until you’ve got the information you need from the castle! And between you and me, I reckon you should be looking in wherever the Red Druids hang out. They always look so shifty whenever they’re passing through.”

“Yes, I met one of ‘em back in Ulstead. Siobhan Mograve, I think her name was. She’s Queen Orlaith’s envoy.”

“You got it,” Pio confirmed, surprised. “She’s their leader.”

“Who are they, then?”

“They’re, uhm … remnants of Breoslaigh’s past, I guess. I heard that since Queen Orlaith turned up, all boys were turned towards soldiery and all girls were tested for magical potential. The kingdom’s got some old families whose ancestry is in the Moors, back when people used to live there. If a girl can do magic then she becomes an acolyte for the Red Druids. All I know about them is that they can control fire. Orlaith seems to think they’re important enough to keep in the castle, so … we should start there!”

Diaval felt to have an itch in the back of his mind. Distracted by the story of Breoslaigh’s past, he reluctantly recalled something that was mentioned by the Morrigan.

“Pio, what do you know about Eastwend?”

The other man’s eyes lit up in the way a child’s did when about to relay a particularly exciting story.

“You don’t know? Eastwend was like Breoslaigh’s, er … sister kingdom, I think. The ruins are a bit further to the south. A few hundred years ago, a massive dragon came out of nowhere and destroyed it entirely! And then the lands around this place just like, died, but the people were too stubborn to go anywhere else. They began to fear magical creatures, so they never asked the Moors for help the years that followed. They just kinda … stared wistfully at everything the Moors had, until one of the princes went to ask for help and disappeared. Stuff collapsed into a civil war, and the royal family were overthrown. That’s when Ingrith fled to Ulstead to marry King John.”

Diaval listened in silence, unnerved by how closely the story matched what he had heard from the Morrigan. Had it been some sort of vision of the past, then? But why and how was  _ he _ being exposed to the intimate details of a kingdom’s bloody history? A common raven whose experience in just about any supposed profession was serving faeries and human queens!

Clearing his throat, he rubbed at his face and tried to put his whirlwind of thoughts back in some semblance of order.

“Then who is Queen Orlaith?”

“No idea! I heard a rumour that she’s some kinda long lost cousin of the last king, and another rumour that she was one of the Red Druids. Doesn’t really matter. This is a lady obsessed with war.”

“What gave you that idea?” Diaval returned jokingly, though it didn’t quite hit the mark. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. There’s one stop I wanted to make before we head for the town, though.”

Pio tilted his head questioningly.

Once they were dressed and about to leave, Diaval found himself short of a cloak to wear into the chilly night, so simply stole one from the wooden ottoman at the foot of another soldier’s bed. It was a coarse, ragged thing, but the bear fur on the mantle would serve to keep him warm enough. Pio delighted in copying him and stealing a cloak of his own. 

Well, it wasn’t like the kingdom was short of army supplies. 

Creeping out of the infirmary, Diaval sniffed and took in their surroundings. There were guards patrolling the trails between buildings, and even more guards stood atop the town walls to the north. Great fires were lit in the towers interspersed along the walls, lighting much of the camp below well enough that Diaval could form a path in his head. If Pio were not with him, he would have transformed into something far stealthier than his man-shape, but did not want the younger man to feel as though he was being left behind. 

Together, they darted between buildings and the shadows cast by the fires, stopping to fall flat against walls whenever a small patrol walked past. They made their way all the way over to the other side of the camp where there were pens that kept the horses and the pigs. Spotting a shovel left by one of the fences, Diaval grabbed it and clambered over into one of the sties, quietly begging the pardon of the sow that grunted formidably at him from the corner. 

“Diaval!” Pio called in a harsh whisper, fearfully looking around in search of guards. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.”

Shovelling a generous heap of stinking, goopy muck off the ground, Diaval climbed back out of the sty and carried the shovel back between the buildings, pausing to peer around a corner towards a section of the camp devoted entirely to men of a higher rank. Each of them had their own large tent away from the rabble of the barracks. Diaval waited for the nearest patrol to move off out of sight, then quickly tip-toed into the more distinguished part of the camp in search of anything that might have hinted towards General Lough’s abode.

Those were undeniably the general’s boots perched neatly outside of a sealed tent. They were expensive and recently shined. Perfect. Creeping forth, Diaval held the shovel forwards and meticulously tipped its contents as cleanly into the boots as he could. The rest, he spread in a line in front of the door flap.

When he stepped back to admire his work, he spotted a pail of water sat atop a nearby barrel. A sign from the gods! Grabbing it, he spared his quiet surroundings another glance, and then he tore open the flap to Lough’s tent and threw the water inside.

Cackling, he sprinted back to where Pio was hiding behind a cluster of beer barrels and dived behind them to seize hold of his friend’s good arm and guide him towards a discarded wagon filled with straw. The pair of them bound inside and hastily covered themselves just as a yell of abject fury filled the camp.

Still sniggering to himself, Diaval felt a light kick to his shin. 

“What?” He asked the lump beside him. Pulling straw away from his eyes, he dared peep over the rotted edge of the wagon and watched gleefully as a half-naked and rather wet General Lough stormed out of his tent a small distance away.

“They’ll see you! You’re crazy, Diaval! You just put pig shit in Lough’s shoes!”

“Oh, I did? Oops.” 

A second cry of anger pierced the night. Diaval pridefully observed his work. Pio knelt up to join him, snorting quietly with reluctant amusement as they watched the general try in vain to peel his sodden boots back off.

“What’s your next crazy idea, man? How do we get into the castle unseen? They always keep the gates shut!”

“I’ve got an idea, but I’m not sure if it’ll work. Hang on.” Ducking down again, Diaval steeled himself, preparing to perform a trick that he had never attempted before. The realm of shapeshifting was one full of grey areas. The more traditional of creatures blessed with such power, the puca, had the ability to change into just about anything. Would his power extend that far?

He concentrated. In response to the wind that began to ruffle his hair, Pio ducked down to join him, watching with intense fascination as the shadows gathered and began to change Diaval’s shape. Once they dispersed, it was not Diaval that stared cluelessly back at him, but the more haggard countenance of General Lough.

“Oh, my  _ god _ .”

“Did it work?” Diaval asked, immediately perturbed by the strange voice that came out of his mouth. He pulled a face of apparent disgust.

“Yeah! You’ve got it, mate. You look just like him. That’s  _ cool _ . Weird, but cool.”

“Stay down, I think he heard us.”

Indeed, there came a snarl of rage and then the heavy plodding of footsteps stomping over to their direction. Feeling somewhat more confident following the successful shapeshift, Diaval crouched down and waited for the opportune moment.

“You there! I can hear you in there, you insolent wastes of space! I’ll feed you to the hounds once I get my hands on you! I’ll - aaargh!”

The general was interrupted upon being quite suddenly introduced to his precise mirror image. 

They stared at each other. Then they stared at each other some more. General Lough seemed genuinely aghast, his mouth hanging open in pure, unbridled shock. 

Taking advantage of that, Diaval reached for him from the wagon and waggled his fingers spookily, crying “Boo!” If only to hammer the nail in further. Lough jumped in horror, and then he passed clean out, folding untidily onto the ground like a rag doll. 

The shuffling of hay signalled Pio’s reemergence. Together, they gazed down at their now unconscious nemesis, and then they turned to each other and grinned. 

“C‘mon then, kid. I think it’s time to get past the gates.”

“Aren’t they gonna know that was you?”

“Don’t think so. Officially, I can only turn into animals, you know. They’ll think he’s gone round the twist. Or that there’s a fetch on the loose.”

Sliding out of the wagon, it took Diaval a moment to get used to this new body. It was shorter, though he suddenly felt as though he could punch a hole straight through a brick wall - and like he  _ wanted  _ to, too. That was odd. Pio followed him as he began to head towards the town, quickly brushing hay out of his hair.

“What’s a fetch?” Pio asked, staying as close to Diaval as he possibly could.

“It’s a …” Trailing off, Diaval’s brow furrowed. For some reason, his blood was running cold at the mere mention of the creature. The word did not have a good meaning, though he wouldn’t give himself the time to understand why.

A lone raven croaked in the dark sky overhead. Diaval pushed any errant thoughts out of his mind.

“It’s a kind of wraith,” he continued, and that was all he said on the matter.


	3. Swan Song

It took some time to reach the gates of the city. The great walls formed a sort of square shape that sent them walking all the way around the corner - and Breoslaigh was not small by any means. Where there had been a few guards walking along the walls on the side closest to the camp (apparently not really paying attention), there were far more on this side, all of them armed with guns. There were yet more placed by the massive, iron gate. The placed felt more like a fortress than anything else.

As the pair drew closer, Diaval took hold of Pio’s good arm.

“Try to look scared,” he hissed, and carefully tugged him onwards to look the part. 

“There’s no try about it.” Pio whimpered. He tarried on, however, quite determined. “I’m scared but kind of enjoying it. Y’know?”

“Yeah. I’ve spent over twenty years with Maleficent.”

When they approached the massive gate, which must have been half the height of the monstrous, sandy wall itself, the guards stood to attention. One of them stepped forwards and raised the visor of his helmet. He couldn’t have been any older than eighteen.

“Good evening, sir! Please state your business in the city.”

Diaval pretended to look appalled, then angry. He grunted in Lough-like fashion and eyed the poor boy as though he had just personally insulted him. 

“Do  _ I _ really need to state my business?” He countered gruffly. Diaval was, of course, well versed in mimicry, not just because he was a raven but because he had impersonated Maleficent and her regal, well-spoken, and toneless manner on several occasions. 

The guard glanced at the others as if for assistance, but none came to his aid. He shrank back, his eyes darting quickly down to Diaval’s fist. It made the shapeshifter truly feel ill upon seeing it. 

“S-sorry, sir. It’s just procedure at this hour. I need to report back to the captain every visit between now and dawn.”

“And who outranks the captain, boy?” Diaval grunted again and shook Pio’s arm before pulling him forwards. “I caught this one pilfering from other recruits. Stole a young man’s father’s ring right off his finger in the dead of night! I’m taking him in to receive due punishment. Waste any more of my time and you’ll be next.”

He hated it, truly hated to inspire such fear in one who had done nothing to wrong him. The guard quickly signalled to the others, and together they seized the thick chains that hung off the iron gate to heave it open. The scrape of metal against the stone below hurt Diaval’s ears, though he kept his eyes on the tall passage that was slowly unveiled.

It was all sand-coloured, just like the outer walls. Braziers lined the passage in the hundreds. Swallowing, Diaval moved forwards and into the city to tread the empty trail beyond, and a shadow fell over them both as the great gates were once again closed. 

When they reached the end of the passage, the true Breoslaigh was unveiled. Much of it was darkened by the titanic walls that kept it all neatly trapped in one place, but there were statues as tall as that sandy shell placed in lines along the main, cobbled road which led straight onwards. Smaller, seedy looking streets diverted off in higgledy-piggledy routes, flanked by great stone buildings that were the same colour as the ground.  _ Everything _ was that colour. The ground was uneven, as though they had reached the beginnings of a mighty hill, but there was no such thing ahead.

It was then Diaval realised that Breoslaigh  _ was _ the hill. Nothing had been built from the ground up - everything was carved out of the same stone. Where had once stood a massive mound of rock, an entire city had been forged. He marvelled at the ingenuity. The impossible nature of it. Had humans really done this all themselves? It must have taken centuries to complete by hand alone. It was an enormous shame that such a jewel of human civilisation was doomed to hide behind walls and war.

One side of the statues that lined the road seemed to depict women carrying great bowls of fire in their hands. The other side was perhaps meant to be the gods. It was difficult to tell, for their faces were worn away, whether by time and rain or by human hand. The fires they held cast intimidating shadows across their dusty stone forms, and though they had no eyes to see with, it felt as though they were watching the world below all the same.

The largest structure by far was placed right in the middle of the city at the very end of the cobbled road. It was no sort of castle that Diaval had ever seen. Whereas the other kingdoms boasted hundreds of extravagant towers and banners and too many rooms to count, this one seemed to be the remnants of whatever natural formation had once sat where this city was. It was like a miniature mountain in of itself, with unfamiliar idols and windows and passageways carved in.

“This is amazin’,” Diaval breathed. “No wonder this place has stood for so long.”

“Oh, yeah! The wall was built after Eastwend was burned down. Who knew paranoia could get so expensive?”

“Did you really think I was gonna have that much trouble finding the castle, eh? Back in the mire.”

“Well …” Pio looked abashed. “I just wanted to come with you! I wanna do cool stuff like you do! Spying and … and saving people. I want to do that!”

Not sure whether to feel complimented or uneasy, Diaval deliberated a moment, glancing about to take in the guard situation. There were a few dotted about by the statues and he was sure security would tighten the closer they got to the castle. Finding a bare spot near one of the giant statue pedestals, he guided Pio over and made sure nobody was watching before turning to him.

“This is an awkward time to have this conversation, but the best way you can do those things right now is by layin’ low. I’m gonna need to fly in, and I can’t carry you with me without us bein’ seen. We need to find somewhere for you to hide until I get out.”

Pio could not hide his disappointment at that. The wounded expression was unbearable. Diaval panicked and changed his tactic.

“Look - you’ve already saved people, alright? You - risked yourself by smackin’ Lough on the back of the head with a gun. And then you pulled me all the way back to the camp when I was out there all … what did you call it? Flaked out? And when I told you who I was, you didn’t look at me with mistrust. All you’ve done from the start is help. And now I can find the information that could help save human and faerie alike. I couldn’t have done it without you.” He bowed his head in a grateful gesture. “There is true strength in the ability to be kind. You’ll be a remarkable leader, Prince Pioden. Just like your mother.”

He had expected the other man to concede, but all he received in return was a somewhat blank stare. Raising his eyebrows, he straightened up and folded his great arms.

“What?”

“I - sorry, that was nice, it was just really weird hearing it coming out of Lough’s face.” Pio shook himself, then appeared more determined. He grinned and nodded. “Right! I guess I did help! Okay … the entrance hall of the castle is open to the public, even when it’s late. I can take off my armour so I don’t look like a soldier! I’ll, uh, just look around there until you’re done.” Pio made to move off, though stopped. He smiled back at Diaval. “Thanks, though. Really. I think, after this … I think I really will go home.”

Diaval felt a great relief at that. Pleased and more than a bit proud, he just nodded and put a hand on Pio’s shoulder as he passed him.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Together, they walked briskly up the cobbled road towards the strange castle ahead. Indeed, the closer they got, the more guards seemed to be milling about in the quiet night. Most of them seemed not inclined to pay much attention, either warming their hands on softly crackling fires, bickering, or staring off into space. Those that did spot them did not try to question where they were going. It seemed that General Lough was a man of enough notoriety that the wise would leave well enough alone.

There was an old wall around the castle that might have once contained a lavish garden, something of a staple of the green and lush lands of neighbouring kingdoms. The gate, which depicted an iron knight in battle with a dragon, was left open, protected by guards who spared Lough and Pio nervous glances and silently granted them passage. The sheer silence of the place was increasingly uncomfortable, especially when they passed through the great, carven alcove and found themselves in the castle’s entrance hall. 

Even the crackling of flames in the old braziers could not penetrate the quiet of the place. Diaval had not been entirely sure what to expect, but it certainly was not what stood before him.

Massive stalagmites and stalactites dominated it. Many of them had been carved into pillars. An entire hall had been forged out of a large, ancient cave. There were even empty, shallow trenches in the ground where water may have once ran. What really caught his eye, however, were the monstrosities decorating the walls.

Paintings, unlike anything Diaval had ever seen. While other kingdoms still favoured tapestries, artists here had done things with paint that seemed impossible. Terrifying, lifelike portraits hung in every which direction. Strangest of all, the paintings did not depict kings or queens, nor even heroes or saints. 

They were paintings of Breoslaigh’s enemies, or other feared figures. Hideously exaggerated, whether out of contempt or ignorance.

There was one of a fearsome red dragon. A wizard in a tall blue hat he could not put a name to. There were goblins and gremlins of note. Perhaps the most ominous was that of a shapeless black void carrying a lantern through a dark forest.

Glancing up at the nearest one, he could not recognise the large, angry looking man upon it until he looked at the gold plate underneath, which stated:

_ ‘King John II of Ulstead’ _

John? Was that really supposed to be the kind-hearted king of Ulstead? Father of Phillip? It truly did not resemble him one bit. His hair was not quite that short and not yet so white, for a start.

The next painting depicted a formidable woman dressed in a bearskin. She wielded a round shield and an axe and wore a horned helmet atop her wild mane of curls. 

_ ‘Queen Mera I of Wickpon’ _

Diaval could scarcely believe it. Peering around to make sure they were alone, he waved Pio over and showed him the painting.

“Look! Your mother’s made it to the villainous Hall of Fame. Oh, I wish I could show her that.”

“They’re not too far off, if you can believe it!” Pio replied, anxiously regarding the wild image of his mother. “I heard that’s what she was really like when she was young. Kicking it on the frontlines with her friends, drinking beer. She never cared what anyone thought of her.” His tone turned admiring, then, and he grinned. “That’s how her and dad met. She’s the only person who ever impressed him.”

Raising his eyebrows, Diaval turned to the picture and beheld it, similarly impressed.

“Who’s this one? Queen Aurora?”

Pio directed his attention over to the next painting. It looked to be the newest of them all, for its elaborate wooden frame was not yet worn or flaking. Diaval’s heart skipped a beat as he took in the beautiful but horrifying depiction of his own fledgeling. 

She wore a gown of dark, pointed leaves. Atop her lank, dirty blonde hair was a crown of thorns. She was gaunt and pale, though carried herself with an elegance that might have befitted a faerie. Claws were growing on her long fingers, touching daintily at a ludicrously exposed thigh. It was a painting of a woman that was losing her humanity and turning into something Other. Something that the people of Breoslaigh apparently did not like.

_ ‘Queen Aurora I of the Moors’ _

It was not the time to get angry. He had a job to do. Still, he could not help but stand and glare at the unfamiliar visage of his beloved daughter, furiously taking in its tastelessness.

“It’s nothin’ like her,” he said lowly. “Why are these paintings here? So the public can come and remind themselves of the people they’re supposed to be hating?”

“I think you’re right, man. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that they were here! You probably shouldn’t look at the ones of you and Maleficent, then.”

Pio was right - he probably shouldn’t have. A dark curiosity clawed at him, however. It was all nonsense. Damnable  _ lies _ . There was no reason to get offended, then, if nothing of what the pictures displayed was the truth. Was there? 

Following the boy over to the other side of the grand, stone staircase that led to the rest of the castle, Diaval raised his eyebrows as he took in the two large portraits that were hung together side by side. 

Of course, Maleficent was beautiful, but it was of a more monstrous, dark beauty within those painted strokes. Her skin was of a greenish hue, and her eyes, which seemed to peer out of the painting and into the soul of the viewer, were an unnatural yellow. Her red lips were curved in a knowing little smile and Diaval felt a brief tug at his heartstrings, for there was something familiar about it despite the untruths that crowned it.

_ ‘Maleficent, Guardian of the Moors’ _

Deep inside, a deep sadness began to arise. She was so much more than this cruel, narrow image. Why couldn’t the humans ever see that? Why did they have to create false fairytales around things they chose not to understand? It was as though the mere mention of horns or wings struck the fear of the gods into them. Given the wickedness of her gaze, this was not supposed to be a favourably portrayal of the infamous Maleficent.

And beside her was a person Diaval certainly did not recognise. Surprised to find himself depicted as a man, let alone depicted at all, he very quickly took in the creature that this kingdom perceived him to be through the stories and the rumours meant to besmirch his name. Not that they could ever even get  _ that _ right. 

The man had his hand extended, as if to invite the viewer into the portrait and to another world. His skin was the grey of death. Otherworldly and uncomfortably handsome features were lit with the terrible glow of amber dragon’s eyes, and his perfectly straight hair was decorated with a crown of antler.

_ ‘Diablo the Black, The Demon Raven’ _

Perhaps there was less possibility of being recognised than he’d initially thought. It provided little relief from the sharp spike of bitterness he felt upon seeing the title underneath the portrait; none of it made sense. What was so difficult about getting his gods-given name right?!

“Wow,” Pio commented, the forced nature of the cheeriness in his tone more than audible. “You look like … uh, an evil elf or something. Do demons really look like that?”

Diaval responded flatly, “Not unless they want to. Y’know, demons and spirits are just the same thing. It’s just that some use their power for good and for nature, while others use it for evil.” Frowning, he peered up into the cold, fiery eyes of his fictional counterpart, and he felt a chill race up his spine. It felt like the picture was staring right back at him, reading his thoughts. “I’ll give them demon raven if they keep this nightmare hangin’ up. Have you ever seen anythin’ so ridiculous?”

“Well … it’s kind of cool to look at. The song is worse, honestly, but also really catchy.”

“What?” Diaval dared ask, knowing that he was going to regret it. “Song?”

Trying to hide a blatant smirk, Pio turned away to look at the rest of the gloomy portraits. 

“ _ ‘Tis from hellish pits the fiend was summoned - _ “

“Alright, no, I don’t need to know it,” the shapeshifter quickly interrupted, desperate enough that it earned him a quiet bark of laughter. 

“Right! You’ve got espionage to be getting on with.”

“Yes, so you need to stay right here until I’m back. If anyone asks, say you’re waitin’ for General Lough to get back from a visit to the boys’ room. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Pio saluted him, then offered a mysterious thumbs-up gesture. 

Shoving aside the anger the paintings had awakened, Diaval gratefully turned away from them and looked up at the hall’s ceiling wonderingly. He decided it was a foolish idea to build a castle within a cave; there were small, dark tunnels high up there, perhaps the remnants of a cave system that could see him navigate the castle without taking the main corridors. Turning about a bit, he chose the tunnel that sat high above the grand staircase.

After making sure no guards had since entered the hall, he turned into a sparrow and fluttered all the way up to the tunnel to peer cautiously down it a moment. For all he knew, he could be entering the den of a vulture or something of the sort, and the last thing he really needed at that time was to be suddenly gobbled up.

And so, Diaval entered the walls of Breoslaigh’s old, forbidden castle. The cave system proved useful, allowing him to bypass guarded places. What proved even more useful was that the castle seemed to have no doors at all, preferring dark, velvet curtains that draped across archways and the many stone balconies. However, he had no idea where to find the quarter of the Red Druids.

Until he saw one. A tall, willowy woman wearing crimson, ornate robes with a high collar. Her long, black hair and olive skin made her easily recognisable as Siobhan Mograve, and she was striding briskly through the halls as though she owned them. Up on the ceiling, Diaval watched her go. What a stroke of luck! If any of them would be up to no good, it was her.

He followed her in the shape of a rat. Then a sparrow again. Even a dragonfly at one point to pass through a dark, curtained archway, unnoticed by the pair of acolytes that were near enough falling asleep outside of it. Siobhan seemed to aggravated to notice anything that was not directly in front of her face. With those extravagant robes trailing behind her, she stormed into the Diaval could only presume was the domain of her organisation given the feminine statues and the endless rows of lit torches. Blood-coloured finery hung on the walls and decorated the floor.

It was the sort of place where only shadows could live comfortably, Diaval thought. Fluttering after Siobhan as she ventured down a wide set of stairs, he entered a large chamber and flew up to the top of one of four stone pillars that surrounded a raised circle on the floor. He turned back into a rat and peeped down over the ledge.

He found what he was looking for. 

In a large brazier in the middle of the circle below, a golden flame burned.

It was golden in the truest sense of the word. It did not burn orange, red, or yellow. It was a magnificent font of magic that spewed glittering tendrils of energy from its resplendent core. It reminded him dearly of Maleficent’s life magic, that glorious gold that would sweep across the the tears of wounded people or trees and heal them as good as new. There was something different about it, however … different in the way it felt to him up there atop the pillar. Colder, almost. If he concentrated, he was sure his sensitive ears picked up on a faint whispering emerging from the depths of the flame. 

The tendrils of magic seemed to reach for him. One brushed ever so gently across his dark fur, and that soft whispering became louder, albeit not loud enough that he could understand any words it might have been saying.

It was strange. For those few seconds, he felt to be entirely at peace. As soon as the tendril moved away again, all of his confusion and anger came crashing back in. What was such magic doing in Breoslaigh? It certainly did not belong there, he knew that much. It belonged somewhere like the Moors, or -

Distracted by the sound of footsteps, Diaval shrank back, his little rat nose sniffing curiously at the scene below. 

Siobhan was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth in front of the flame, like a caged animal. As soon as her human ears picked up on the footsteps some seconds later, she stopped and straightened at once, her hands quickly clasping neatly at her front. 

She was nervous. Diaval could hear the hammering of her heart and her quickened breath. Moments later, he found out why.

There, down the wide stairs that descended into the old chamber, came a figure never seen outside of the kingdom. It was a woman of medium height and narrow build - or it could be assumed she was a woman, dressed in a long gown as black as night. It trailed behind her, following as she stepped slowly down. It was impossible to tell what she looked like, for every inch of her was covered. Upon her hands she wore silk gloves, and over her head she wore a long, impenetrable lacy black veil that descended the fall of her dress behind her. It was not impossible to tell who she was, however, for atop that veil, she wore a tall, ornate crown of iron.

Queen Orlaith.

Something about her made Diaval’s skin crawl. The way she moved was nearly unnatural, gliding down the steps like a ghost. It was impossible to tell just where she was looking. The woman slowly approached Siobhan, and he saw the druid fight not to take a step back.

“Your Majesty,” Siobhan greeted with reverence, curtsying. “What ails you at this time?”

Orlaith considered that. It was, of course, impossible to tell what she might have been thinking or feeling. When she at last spoke, she did it plainly in a quiet, calm voice that was somehow regal and course all at once. 

“Where are the acolytes?” 

Siobhan seemed surprised by that. Her lips parted in evident confusion before she collected herself.

“Well … they’re in bed, Your Majesty. It’s late. They’ll be up in a few hours to come back and -“

“The flame must be guarded at all times,” Orlaith cut in. 

Though her voice was hollow, there was something so strangely formidable about it that Diaval felt a chill course through his feet. Something told him there was nobody in all the kingdoms that would dare get on this particular queen’s bad side. 

“Of course. I will arrange shifts for the acolytes. If I might ask, well … how long are we keeping it in our halls? The girls are supposed to be studying ready for their trials come the spring, but -“

“Did you study hard your books as a girl? Tell me, then: what is more important? The trials of a few acolytes, or the protection of our kingdom? How many times must our city fall before you all begin to understand?” Orlaith moved closer to the other woman, her long, dark form looming over her like a shadow. “If this flame falls into the wrong hands, Breoslaigh perishes beneath the united kingdoms. The Feth Fiadha is our one true defence. Or would you prefer that your girls achieve their marks this year?”

Diaval’s blood ran cold. 

Breoslaigh was responsible for the Feth Fiadha, the invasion of risen souls and demons that had claimed lives in Ulstead, and had almost claimed his family.

And Orlaith was responsible for a destructive culture that purposefully walked all over those who did not have the means to fight back.

Just like Queen Ingrith, this was evil at its truest. Breoslaigh was ruled by a cold-hearted ghoul of a queen who cared nothing for the lives of anybody beneath her, no matter how she spouted her demands as being for the greater good.

And yet,  _ he  _ was the one somehow blamed for bringing the invasion to Ulstead. What injustice was this?!

Rage flared all too easily. He had to push it back and keep himself calm and collected, no matter the news. If he transformed in front of these people, he would be killed in an instant and the Moors would suffer greatly for it.

“The flame will be protected,” Siobhan assured the queen, lowering her head. “Five of my best druids gave their lives extracting it from Tech Duinn. I will not let their sacrifice be in vain, nor will I let Breoslaigh fall again! The Red Druids are its final and greatest force, always!”

“Yes,” Orlaith murmured quietly. Turning, she faced Diaval’s pillar for a heart-stopping moment. “When the war is won, the flame will be taken back to its pedestal before the gateway. Then, and only then. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“The flame is agitated.” Floating over to the great, golden flame in the centre of the chamber, Orlaith waved a gloved hand over the halo-like glow of energy beaming from within. The tendrils of magic streaming from within recoiled away from her touch, as though the font of power was a living creature fearing the cold touch of one so cruel. “Poor thing … It longs for its home.”

Diaval could not take much more. If he was exposed to much more of Orlaith, he would without a doubt transform, or worse - lose control of his shape entirely, just like in Ulstead. He may not have liked the kingdom particularly, but the last thing he wanted to do was put the innocent civilians in danger.

When Orlaith and Siobhan went to ascend the stairs, he performed his oldest transformation yet. In the wretched shape of a big and very fuzzy moth (which was an entirely awful experience, he would quickly learn), he fluttered out of the chamber over their heads and back out into the halls. It took an age to fly just about anywhere as he just could not keep a straight line in such a shape, no matter how hard he tried. Also, the many flames he passed along the way proved very,  _ very _ distracting. 

Eventually finding an open window, he flitted out and turned into a bat to disguise himself in the night. He had seen enough, heard enough of Orlaith’s cruelty to come to a reasonable conclusion. 

The flame had to be taken out of Breoslaigh and back Tech Duinn. Wherever that was. But how?

The conversation he had overheard lingering in his mind, he flapped back to the entrance hall and slipped inside. Silently did he flutter to the nearest wall and hang upside down there to briefly assess the guards that had found their way in. There was only two, though they were watching Pio with a degree of suspicion as the boy perused the paintings for what was likely the hundredth time. Diaval, quite forgetting himself in his worry, dived off the wall and flew down to greet Pio by landing on his shoulder.

Pio took one look at him, then shrieked so loudly that the sound echoed several times around the hall. He had forgotten himself too, apparently, and shrieked again when Diaval quickly clambered down and hid inside the young man’s cloak.

“Aaaaghh!” Poor Pio spluttered, performing an uncomfortable dance as Diaval crawled about his person in his bat-shape. By then, the two guards were staring right at him, their eyes narrowed. “I mean - aaahhh! This painting of this …” he gestured vaguely at the portrait of the formless, ghoulish thing carrying a lantern. “It’s so scary! I … Oh, I’ve really looked my fill, now! I’m inspired with hatred!”

With that, Pio jittered anxiously and quickly headed out of the entrance. Thankfully, at some point he had discarded his armour and looked enough like a civilian that the guards did not attempt to enquire after his business. Power-walking down the cobbled road, it was only when he was far away enough from the castle did he dart behind one of the enormous statues and open his cloak, casting his gaze around to make sure nobody in the near empty town was watching.

Freed from his prison, Diaval clambered up and hung on to the front of Pio’s shirt, squeaking viciously at him.

“Hey, it’s not my fault you threw yourself at me in the shape of a bat! You should see yourself, man! Are you gonna transform or what?”

That was a point. Diaval clawed his way back down to the ground. It took several attempts, but he was able to transform back into the shape of General Lough. Once it was over, he found Pio watching him with a frown. 

“I think I preferred the bat,” he said. “Did you find anything useful in there?”

“Yes. Let’s get out of of the city first. I dunno about you, but I’ve had enough of this hellish place.”

* * *

They fled.

It was early morning hours by the time they slipped out of the camp and headed west towards the river. They walked on and on across the plains, weary but hopeful, only stopping when they were sure they were out of sight. Diaval gazed out towards the broad river, which by then was a small distance away, looking at the imposing silhouette of the Moors against the navy blue sky.

“We’ll take a quick stop in the Moors and find food,” he advised. “It’s a long flight to Wickpon. It could take half a day if I turn into something big enough.” Thinking a moment, he tried to decide on an appropriate form that was both large enough to carry Pio and able to fly. Carefully, he considered just how dangerous such a form might be - but what choice did they have? 

Pio glanced anxiously back towards Breoslaigh, then squared himself, nodding. Once his focus was back on Diaval, he stared eagerly in wait. 

“What are you gonna - oh!”

The transformation had already started. It seemed that the bigger the creature, the more aggressive the accompanying swirling wind and shadows were. It kicked up the dust and bone fragments for those few seconds the change took place. By the end, a mighty, black griffin stood before a gobsmacked Pio, though its head was something more like a raven than that of an eagle.

“Oh, man!” The younger man exclaimed excitedly, jumping up and down a bit. “Oh, that’s amazing! Can I - are you -? Ah!”

He received his answer in the form of Diaval kneeling down in the dust and clicking his beak. Once the boy had clambered eagerly onto his back, he stood and trotted off towards the Moors, unfolding his enormous, dark wings. 

Now, this was a form that Diaval could get used to. It was big and dangerous enough that only fools would dare mess with it. Most of all, its instincts were not quite as overwhelming as a dragon’s, for it was not much different to being a raven. This creature simultaneously longed to fly or peck at the ground in search of big, juicy grubs, and that was something far more manageable. 

Once he’d gotten used to the wings, he took off. The wings were strong, carrying them into the air with great ease. Behind him, he could hear Pio laughing with both nerves and excitement as the wind rushed past them. That dark, chilly morning, the air must have tasted like freedom, but nothing could prepare the prince for what he would discover in the Moors when they crossed the river and descended into the tall, mysterious trees of the Forest of Waking.

Glowing water dragons were floating about the river’s edge, minding their own business. Giant, multicoloured fireflies drifted silently about the quiet trees. Fairies that were sleeping in the crevices of trees and in the branches were awoken by Diaval’s descent down to the magical undergrowth, and some of them flittered curiously out from their little beds, squeaking or grumbling with recognition when the shapeshifter transformed back into his man-shape. They received him with excitement, chatting animatedly at him in their fairy language as he sat wearily down on the nearest rock and watched Pio take in this new world.

The prince stood still there below the trees, wide-eyed. Perhaps it was fear that claimed him, but it was thankfully short-lived. Flower and water fairies flew curiously around him, their glowing wings illuminating the forest with bright colours as their moods shifted, and mushroom and various animal fairies gathered in the grass to stare up at the young man. 

None of them showed any desire to attack the stranger. They only regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and a sincere welcome. The fairies giggled and flitted off when he tried to reach out to them, though they responded by tossing magical, glowing flowers about his form and into his hair. 

“It’s alright,” Diaval murmured towards the shyer ones, who were hiding behind his shoulders or atop his head. “This is Prince Pioden of Wickpon. He’s one of us.”

Pio heard that. The prince turned to him and offered a grateful smile, staring with absolute wonder at the magical world that had welcomed him so swiftly. 

“Are they all like this?”

“Most. Some are more formidable, like the tree warriors, or the earth dragons, but we all have one thing in common, I think. We just want to look after this place and live in peace. That’s, uh, been a bit difficult for the last … forever.”

“Yeah.” A sudden sort of sadness seemed to overwhelm Pio, then. Sagging a bit, he trudged forwards and headed for a tree that boasted dangling, purple fruit. “Are these safe to eat?”

“What, don’t you have ficklefruit in the north? They’re good, they taste sweet at night and sour in the day, so get chompin’.”

Amazed by that, Pio picked one of the fruits and took a tentative little bite. His eyes lit up. Once he had devoured near enough the whole thing, he stuffed some more in his bag ready for the journey.

“I can really just take it?”

“You need to eat, don’t you?” Realising that his tone might have come across a bit short, he glanced away in apologetic fashion. It was a mistake to have sat down. He was so tired that he could have curled up and slept right there on that stone, but there wasn’t the time. All the more, his family were a short flight away, and he realised it had been easier to be so far away in another kingdom than being so close and feeling unable to face their inevitable anger. 

“So do you,” was Pio’s unaffected response. The younger man moved over and sat down on the lush grass in front of him, wordlessly offering a ficklefruit forwards. Only when Diaval eventually took it did he speak again, playing with the fairies that assembled around him to fiddle and sniff at his clothes. “I really am sorry. I should never have let my fear of the Moon Witch affect how I felt about the Moors. I just mindlessly went along with whatever Breoslaigh said, and … Is this really what they want to fight?” Looking up, his dark eyes were filled the dazzling lights of the creatures that moved through the woods. “I should’ve known better. I know what it’s like to exist in a world where it feels like … well, it feels like you don’t belong.”

Picking a bit at the fruit, Diaval paused and patiently waited for Pio to find his words. That sadness seemed to claim him again, and it was heart-wrenching to bear witness to it. 

“I didn’t just run away from Wickpon ‘cause of the Moon Witch,” Pio admitted. “I don’t think. It was how strict and traditional the lords and ladies were, too. My dad kept trying to set me up with his favourite lord’s daughter and get us engaged, but … And then he made me tell him why I didn’t want to, right in front of all his friends. Er, I love girls, but not like  _ that _ . I mean, I tried to like them like that, I just couldn’t. I was too scared to tell my mum what was going on. Everyone else turned against me, why wouldn’t she?”

Stunned by the tale relayed to him, Diaval slowly processed it until he truly understood what was being shared. It truly broke his heart to hear it. Nobody should have endured such treatment, especially from one’s own family. How much cruelty and bitterness did it take to do such a thing to a mere child? Contrarily, it must have taken Pio an inordinate amount of courage to speak of something that still caused him evident fear when it came to going home and facing that world again.

Sadly beholding the prince, he straightened his features and smiled, instead.

“Well, I once attended the weddin’ of a porcupine and a mushroom,” he offered for consideration, and was pleased to see a little smile of surprise arise in response. “‘N behind all this I’m really just a common raven, but I’m handfasted to the strongest faerie there is. In the Moors, it isn’t about what you are but the love you feel. I thought it was like that everywhere.”

Pio just shook his head, though seemed surprisingly comforted.

“No. But, if humans are hooking up with faeries these days, then it’s a start, right? And one day I’ll be in a position to encourage these changes. That’s why I should go back, right? So I can help people.” He smiled and glanced up. “And look at you! You say you’re just a common raven, but you’re flying around all over the place nonstop to make sure this place stays safe. You really,  _ really _ love your family, man. I can tell. I hope that one day, I’ll have that, too!”

“You have it,” Diaval assured him. “You have us, and you’ve got your mother. Speakin’ of which, I can’t wait to see the look on her face when you show up.”

Pio’s smile broadened. “Yeah, me too!”

* * *

The flight took a little longer than half a day, mostly because Diaval did not want to risk accidentally transforming over the Blazing Sea, though he did remain low over shallow waters just in case an accident was to occur. Whether it was luck or something else, nothing of the sort happened. 

The large, gloomy looking castle of Wickpon came into view long before they reached the kingdom. Stark black against the early evening sky, it was difficult to miss wherever one was stood in this part of the land, which for Diaval could still inspire phantom feelings of misery and a genuine, painful despair. Though the town and forest were not yet covered by winter’s snow, being within them only encouraged those feelings further, no matter how hard he tried to stifle them and move on.

He had been to Wickpon several times after Aurora made him the Moors’ envoy. Whether it was his tiredness or the lingering aftershocks of the invasion of Ulstead, this time felt to be the hardest; for it was cold and he was set immediately on edge despite the lack of danger to be found among the town and its people. In fact, when he landed there on the main road he had once trudged up in very different circumstances, he was greeted with waves and smiles from the townsfolk going about their day. 

But he’d said he would deliver Pio back to Wickpon, and Diaval was not one to go back on his word. Instead, as he trotted up along the grey road with Pio on his back, he tried to find the good in what he could see, and he realised that all the city repairs seemed to be complete at last. Wickpon was once again restored to its former glory, and despite the looming nature of its castle, it shined once more as the jewel of the north.

Even Diaval felt oddly nervous when they approached the castle gates. Lowering down so that Pio could climb off his back, he transformed back into his man-shape and rubbed his hands together to stave off the cold. 

Prince Pioden slowly turned to look around at the town he had left behind. Nobody seemed to have noticed who he was, yet, granting him the opportunity to drink his fill. When he faced the castle once more, his eyes filled with tears and he audibly gulped. Diaval quickly put a hand on his shoulder and guided him onwards, staying close to him to provide support as they made their way towards the hulking, wooden doors that led inside. 

The two guards, clad in Wickpon’s signature black armour, greeted Diaval by standing to attention. He still wasn’t quite used to that - though certainly would not ask them to stop.

“Hullo, m’lord! Do you carry a message for the queen?” One of them asked brightly, raising his visor. 

“Of a sort. I carry her son, the prince.” Diaval answered smugly, gesturing towards a rather flustered Pio. 

The guards’ jaws dropped. 

“Well I’ll be blown!”

“Good heavens! It really is him!”

At once, they both genuflected.

“Your Highness! What a blessed day this is for Wickpon! You must see the queen at once!”

Pio seemed to be in a numb and unreceptive state, staring at the guards as if they had each sprouted another head. Noticing, Diaval gently took his arm and continued to guide him forwards into the castle walls.

It was there he began to feel a bit better now that he couldn’t see the rest of Wickpon, thus didn’t have to think about it. Truthfully, Mera’s castle was his favourite of all the ones he had ever been in. The kingdom had a lot of wealth due to the presence of precious jewels in the nearby mountains, and the queen had remarkably good taste for one who preferred to spend her days pulling pints for the locals in The Harpy’s Head. The vaguely spooky, gothic interior suited Diaval quite nicely. 

Directly ahead was the throne room, a large and glittering chamber with spiralling black pillars and dragon-themed tapestries. Pio leapt aside before they could enter and be received by the servants. With his back against the wall, he appeared for all the world like a cornered deer, his eyes wide.

“I can’t do it,” he announced. “It’s been so long! What if she doesn’t want me back?! I was a kid when I left, and now I’m … I’m someone else!”

“Come, now,” Diaval said with a vague but kindly sternness. “Do you really think that your mother, Queen Mera, one of the kindest people in the known world, doesn’t want her only child back? Gainin’ a few inches and sprouting a few chin hairs doesn’t change anythin’, ya know.”

“I have more than a few!” Pio argued adamantly, then immediately relented. “I’m sorry. Can you go in first? Maybe if I just hear her voice, it’ll make it easier.”

The page at the door was listening to the entire conversation, clearly doing his best not to vocalise his surprise upon seeing the kingdom’s long lost prince. Diaval nodded, then approached.

“You can announce me, but will you leave the boy as a surprise?”

“Y-yes m’lord, as you wish.” The page hurried into the room and alerted the guards.

Diaval arranged himself within the grand archway, waiting for the usual and frankly unnecessary charade that occurred whenever he entered a room in any of these castles. It was fortunate he was not running late for a meeting, as was the cause of his frequent irritation regarding all the trumpets and the announcements. 

What was the point? He could already see a rather bored Queen Mera sat signing documents on her throne. He was not nobility and thus did not warrant introduction, and yet the humans insisted on doing it anyway. 

“Your Royal Majesty! We have a guest in the castle! Just one, and no more!” The page announced to the hall, and Diaval sighed. “Presenting Diaval of the Moors, the Great Black Dragon, Bane of the Moon Witch —“

“Thank you!” Diaval swiftly interrupted, striding into the throne room. Stopping just before the dais, he swept into an extravagant bow before the startled queen. “At your service, as always.”

After so much strife, it proved a great comfort to see her again. She, who had found him in a desperate hour of need and given him a chance to find himself within frightened, muddled thoughts. She had cleaned his wounds and given him the strength to continue the fight for Wickpon’s cause. And if not for her attempts to rescue him, Wynne certainly would have killed him with that spear of ice on the frozen river. Queen Mera was of a rare variety, and one of the few people that Diaval sincerely respected.

She stared at him through the magnifying glass she had been using to read the scroll in her hand. A second later, both objects were carelessly lobbed aside when she stood and beamed down at him. Her portly figure was not much taller than if she were still sat down. Her coal-grey dress was by no means as fine as the garments of other royalty, and the dark crown atop her flyaway hair looked as if it had been hammered into shape with a fist. It was the steely resolve in her eyes that served to both intimidate and command attention.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” she greeted, folding her arms across her bosom. “Last I heard, you were off fighting the undead. Did you come back to stock up on that gin you love so much?”

Diaval grinned. He quickly headed up the dais, and Mera opened her arms to receive him in a tight hug.

“Thought I’d give you some time to brew it in your witch’s hovel,” he said coarsely. His heart ached, but he was not entirely sure why.

They parted, though Mera kept her hands firmly on his shoulders, scrutinising him.

“You look terrible.” She tutted, though it was out of concern. “I finally received a letter from Ulstead yesterday. I’m glad to hear that they’re starting on the road to recovery. My heart broke for you all when I heard. It’s at times like this I wish Wickpon was not so far away from you both!” Releasing him, she slammed a fist into her open palm. “You know what? I’d love to get my hands on whoever is responsible. I don’t care  _ who _ they are.”

“I’ll tell you everythin’, though I might have to write you a letter. I’m here for a different reason today, actually.”

“Hm.” Mera grunted. “If there is anything you need, Diaval, I will do all in my power to arrange it for you.”

“I know, but I’m here to bring you something, instead.”

The queen regarded him with a degree of suspicion. Diaval just smiled innocently at her, then reached down to take her hand. 

“There’s a lot of people in here. D’you mind if I take you outside?”

“Please do. I’ve been bored to death!” Together, the pair stepped quickly down the steps and headed for the grand archway ahead. “What are you up to, bird?”

“It’s no mischief today. Honest.”

He eagerly drew her out of the throne room and out into the entrance hall beyond. The thought crossed his mind that Pio might have run away out of nerves, and he hardly would have blamed him - but no, the prince was there waiting alone, hands anxiously fiddling at his front. 

There was a long silence as the two of them looked at each other for the first time in years. Diaval gently released Mera’s hand and moved to lean against the wall and watch from a respectful distance.

The emotion birthed in that moment was truly palpable.

Shifting on his feet, Pio found the strength to smile, even if his lower lip was wobbling and tears threatened to spill at any moment.

“Hi, mum,” he just about managed.

Mera unleashed a powerful wail that sounded years of pent up grief. 

It probably took a lot to make a woman like her shed even a tear, for all the horrors she had seen. Now, she sobbed without shame and ran to her son to engulf him in her arms.

They both fell to their knees and cried together, holding on so tight that it seemed they might never let go. Any guards or other onlookers present were respectful enough to grant them privacy, returning to their duties with moist eyes and small smiles. 

After all, there was something that they had not been able to fix since the Moon Witch’s defeat. A deep fissure in the heart of Wickpon that no bricks, wood, or nails could mend. And now, after all those years of unspoken grief lingering in the eyes of their queen, that fissure could now begin to mend.

Diaval watched them a moment longer and felt himself welling up. He had seen them both endure and overcome hurdles that might have cost them everything, once. Seeing them there locked together like a jigsaw puzzle was enough to grant him the hope he needed to carry on with his mission.

There was no need for goodbyes. The vacant spaces in their hearts were at last filled, and that was all Diaval needed - though he would, of course, dearly miss Pio’s nonstop questions, and the aura of safety that Mera exuded. Dabbing at his eyes, he quietly left to grant them the full privacy that they needed.

A heavy feeling weighed upon him the moment he set foot out of the castle. It took him some minutes to comprehend it, of course, for it was a long time since he had felt that particular emotion, which tended to flock to the human mind more so than anything else.

An aching loneliness, festering alongside a deep regret. Even his happiness for Mera and Pio could not shift it. 

That melancholy pooled within him as he walked mindlessly down the main road, avoiding carriages and horses as he went. It was only because he was in Wickpon, he thought. He was exhausted following nights of little to no sleep. It was reasonable that he was feeling a bit under the weather. All the more, he had a lot of new information to process and really had no idea where to even begin. 

Though he wanted to leave, he knew that there was no chance of him flying much more, so he headed for The Harpy’s Head further on down the road (and found that it had been renamed back to The Horse’s Head, perhaps out of respect for the tundra fae that now walked the streets of Wickpon). Inside, it was warm and filled with the chatter of patrons as they merrily ate and drank, but Diaval did the very same thing he did the last time he was there - hurried straight up the stairs, away from the prying eyes of strangers. 

Mera wouldn’t mind him taking a room, he knew. He thought about going into the bathroom to clean up, but the moment he saw the bathtub in there, he froze and felt the blood drain from his face. He suffered a very strange feeling, then … almost as though he had taken a clumsy step into the past, and anything that had happened afterwards hadn’t actually happened at all. It was a surreal sensation of being disembodied, almost. Staring into that room, he touched gingerly at his exposed neck, almost expecting to feel the warmth of blood beneath his fingers.

He’d come too far for that. It was two years since the events that filled him with such dread.  _ Two years.  _ There were more important things for him to be worrying about, now, like bloodthirsty gods and stolen magical flames and a dangerous inability to properly control his own shapeshifting … and a war forged from ignorant superstitions he had unwittingly had a part in creating.

Closing his eyes, he turned from the bath and found a vacant room. He forgot to even lock the door behind him as he fell into deep thought, considering all the things that he had seen and learnt. Diaval yanked off the leather armour and undergarments and crawled beneath the thick blankets, curling up on his side to look at the fall of evening through the window. 

For what felt like hours did he stare and let his thoughts tumble over each other in a fight for dominance. The more he considered it all, the less it began to make sense. There was one thing, however, that won the mental brawl in the end.

Maleficent.

To combat what felt like claws scraping possessively across his skin, he thought of Maleficent’s touch instead. Particularly what they had shared the last night they spent together, caught in that perfect moment. The calm before the storm. He’d looked into those wonderful eyes and given her everything, and she did the same in turn, her once cold and piercing gaze turned hot with passion. 

Before all that, however, she had made one very simple request. Of course he would obey her. He loved her so deeply it felt like it could kill him. 

And yet, they had not seen the morning through together.

The guilt had been gnawing at him for so long that it felt to be a part of him, now. He was Diaval! He was supposed to be loyal to the end, always there to lend a voice in times of anger or conflict. Instead, he was here stewing in his recent failings as a mate and father, just waiting for the moment the magic would take over and turn him into something he was not. 

The raven closed his eyes and fell into sleep, but his dreams were met with dark, unwelcome visions.

_ Don’t you dare leave me, Diaval. _

* * *

His ventures in Perceforest did not take half as long, mostly because he knew that the key to stopping the Feth Fiadha was held captive in Breoslaigh and that Queen Orlaith appeared mostly responsible. He spent a few days in Aurora’s former kingdom at most, spying through the windows of the castle, just as he had over twenty years ago.

Perceforest was ruled by a council, now - one comprised solely of older men. Edmund Hill was one of them and often seemed to dominate the proceedings of their many meetings. Diaval kept an eye on that man in particular, his thoughts turning to vengeance when he remembered how Edmund had stared at Maleficent with apparent lasciviousness. So dearly did he want to go through with his threat of pecking Edmund’s eyes right out of his skull, but it wasn’t truly in his nature to do such a thing. More importantly, it would look far too suspicious in the current climate. 

Diaval learnt that Perceforest was very low on iron (and spinning wheels, but that was besides the point), so they were being sent weapons from Breoslaigh via the southern roads. He also learnt that they idolised Stefan and his memory despite the wretched king having been dead for so long, and that they fully intended on reinstating Aurora as their rightful queen one way or another. Clearly, her blood was more important to them than her freedom of choice. No doubt they would try to rule vicariously through her. 

They never spoke of the flame. They barely even ever mentioned Breoslaigh, despite that they were allied. If they feared Queen Orlaith, Diaval understood that entirely.

And so, angry and fresh from terrifying discoveries in the name of the Moors, Diaval finally returned to Ulstead in the shape of a griffin. He flew clumsily into the walls of the castle, so lost in thought and so unbearably nervous that he just had not looked where he was going. 

At once, he was surrounded by guards bearing all manner of weapons, and he shapeshifted back into a man to try and appease them. It didn’t work.

Diaval looked up at the castle and tried to seek whatever shred of courage he might have had left. 

It had been nineteen days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! In the timeline here, the second half of the last chapter of The White Raven are the events that transpire now that Diaval has returned. In the next chapter, we head back to the present and to the Moors and I’m super excited to share it with you! It’s almost done already so shouldn’t take too long to update! Much love. X


	4. A Glimpse of the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a bit of sexy time in this one, though nothing that is fully written out or explicit.

Reconciliation had not gone smoothly.

It was to be expected. After all the difficulties that they had faced and the stress that pervaded their lives every day, conversations were quick to mutate into raging arguments. Years of unspoken frustrations could not all be addressed in one night. Instead, Maleficent and Diaval talked and argued and ignored each other for a full night and most of the following day, too, and by the time Diaval got around to finding Aurora to relay everything that he had done and seen, Maleficent would not even look at him.

His first instinct was to be angry. Such a thing came with remarkable ease, these days. His anger was not truly directed at Maleficent and her revisit to the realm of standoffishness, however, but rather at himself for a great many things. For all he might have achieved spying on other kingdoms, there was a treasured thing that he had lost as a result: the trust of his family. In his fear of the animal they might have seen in him, he had done a good enough job of messing things up, regardless.

Maleficent’s anger, too, was born of a great sadness. He knew it well enough, because he knew  _ her _ well enough. He saw the way she fought the emotion away from her face, but it lingered in the lost lustre of her eyes, the dull sorrow of them when she thought that nobody was looking. No pain of Maleficent’s was hidden from Diaval, and he witnessed it with rising guilt, sickened that he was part of its cause. 

Just as he had been visited by the spirit of Wynne, she was haunted by the one who had hurt her so long ago. And Diaval had not been there to ease her pained heart. No animal was cruel enough to have done such a thing - it had all been him in his desperate and misguided crusade to right the many wrongs that threatened them. Why had he thought to shoulder such a thing alone? Thoughtlessness and even selfishness were not truly in his nature. Were they?

There in the woodland castle, the three of them stood apart in silence as the weight of Diaval’s story set in.

Aurora looked surprised, then annoyed, then worried. Looking between her parents, she raised her eyebrows in apparent awareness of the stiff awkwardness between them, and for some reason it seemed to bother her even more than the news had. Once she had collected her thoughts, she looked at Diaval from her throne, her gaze as sharp and even intimidating as her mother’s in that moment. 

“I’m not happy with what you did,” she said curtly, straightening up upon her esteemed seat. “You have provided valuable information, however. The Moors thank you.”

The unfamiliar cold of her tone hurt him more than any punishment. He would have willingly exchanged his daughter’s anger for a few days in a cell where he could think about what he had done. She sounded older, angrier, than the little girl he had flown in to raise in that small cottage in the forest. Unable to bear it much longer, he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the ground and nodded slightly in acknowledgement.

“I’m sorry that our suspicions were confirmed,” he offered quietly in turn. “I know that I can’t attend your next meeting with the others, and I know I’ve got little right to be asking anythin’ of you, but … If there is a solution that means as little people get hurt as possible, we’ve gotta strive for it. Both kingdoms are bein’ brainwashed about us but it doesn’t have to come to war. The citizens had nothin’ to do with the invasion. I think with some planning, the flame could be stolen from right under their noses.”

She stared at him, deliberating.

“Do you suspect another attack?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’m not sure when. We need to find a way to take the flame from them before it happens. I could -“

“You’re not leaving the Moors,” the queen interrupted sternly, frustration evident in the tautness of her poise. “I know what you want to suggest, but I cannot allow it. It’s too dangerous!”

“But I’m the only one that know exactly where the flame is in the castle, Majesty. Sending a group of people would be too obvious. I could just sneak in there and take it within a night, and I think … I’m not sure how, but the flame is the key to the Feth Fiadha. If they don’t have it, they can’t use it.”

“And what happens if your transformations betray you again? What if you are found? It would be the thing to lead us into war once and for all if they find out we have been  _ spying _ on them, and perhaps they would find it ample reason to kill you and then send the Feth Fiadha to us. I know how tempting and how easy it might seem, but it is too risky for me to allow. How many more times must I repeat myself, Diaval?”

Her use of his name had been a mistake - that much was clear given the look on her face as soon as she said it, but it did nothing to dull the pain that came with it. Wounded by the apparent step backwards they had taken, Diaval said nothing. Had he really messed things up this badly? 

Ashamed, he dwindled there a moment longer, then sullenly shook his head.

“I hear you, Your Majesty. I’ll not do anythin’ to jeopardise us further, nor will I go against your wishes again. I know that you will always fight to do the right thing no matter how hard it is.” He managed a sincere smile, then, proud of Aurora’s resilience, and then he inclined his head in a bow. Slowly rising, he did not look her way. “I am your servant, now and always. I hope that I might make up for what I have done in some way soon. Might I … Could I be excused?”

The truth was that he was finding it rather a bit too much to be stood in the centre of such tension. For all the whirlwind of strange and painful emotions the past few years had been, this was surely one of the worst feelings he had ever known - the sort that caused him to unwittingly marvel at mankind’s capacity for complex turmoils that most animals simply did not know. It was probably his least favourite aspect of his man-shape, and even when he was transformed otherwise, those learned emotions followed him like insistent little gremlins. 

Maleficent left without a word. He heard the beating of her wings as she took off towards the forests beyond. Crippled with shame and an infuriating cluelessness, Diaval made to leave, too, intent on pulling the dragon-shaped shadow of his presence away from the woodland castle and Aurora’s sights. 

But something changed, then. The young queen stood and suddenly she looked more her age, those lines of intense worry departing her round, flushed face. In a flurry of golden locks and butterflies, she was darting down the dais of roots and across the grass, and then she flung herself into Diaval’s arms so firmly that they both almost went toppling down the bank into the stream nearby.

When they found their balance, Diaval was swift to bring his arms around the woman in turn, overwhelmed by the suddenness of her affection. Her head was buried in his shoulder and it reminded him of times before the Feth Fiadha, when the Queen of the Moors was less weighed down by fear than she was now. It reminded him of when she was small and upset for reasons that she didn’t really understand, sitting in the corner of her little bedroom. He would fly in through the window and sit in her lap so that she might hold him and clutch at his feathers. Nobody else was allowed to do that, only the little fledgeling that he had quickly come to love as his own. 

How clouded things had become. How they had changed. What he could not allow to change was his relationship with those he loved, not for anything. Not even the fragility of the kingdoms that governed the land. Diaval’s loyalty was to his family and never would he forget it.

“I’m sorry,” he heard her mumble into his chest. “I didn’t mean to -“

Her sorrowful words were turned into a delighted shriek when she was suddenly picked up and slung over Diaval’s shoulder. Laughing, she pretended to struggle, though held on as tightly as she could as she was carted right back over to the throne. Her giggles caught the attention of any sullen looking fairy close by, brightening their eyes and even the clearing itself as if to banish the Winter gloom dulling it. 

“Father! What are you doing?!” Aurora laughed, and the sound was like music.

Carefully retrieving her from his shoulder to lower her back into the flower-ridden throne, Diaval then straightened the golden crown upon her head and knelt down before her to take her small hands into his. 

“Don’t apologise for doing the things that must be done, diamond,” he said, peering up at her with a small smile. “You’re the Queen of the Moors. I’m so proud of you. You’re leadin’ a whole kingdom through a time o’ strife and raising a family at the same time. And then I just went and nearly messed it all up. I want you to be able to trust me, Aurora.”

“I  _ do _ trust you,” she replied gently, and she released one of his hands to touch tentatively at the scars on his face. “You wear your bravery on your skin, father. I want to protect you as you have done for me. You and mother …” Aurora smiled sadly, gently stroking at his cheek with her fingers. “I want to keep you safe. You have both been through enough.”

“I’ll do anythin’ for you and your kingdom, diamond.”

Aurora sighed. “I know. That is what worries me.”

It had since started raining quietly there over the woodland castle. A pixie fluttered over from the trees on cue with an enormous toadstool, and she hovered there at Aurora’s side with the makeshift umbrella, holding it out over the queen’s head. Aurora was having none of it, however - gratefully taking the toadstool, she held it over Diaval, instead, to protect him from the chilly rain beginning to drip down through the brambles and tree branches overhead. 

“Will you do one thing for me tonight, father?” She asked softly, clutching his hand in hers. “Will you try to make up with mother? Will you bring her some happiness?”

Diaval gulped, then nodded. “Yes.”

Aurora smiled, thoughtfully cocking her head. 

“It’s strange, but something Queen Ingrith said has stayed with me for all this time. I think it is the one wisdom she ever spoke to me. She said that it’s love that will heal you. It’s what heals us all. I think she was right, if only she could have truly understood such a thing. It’s love that will see you on the road you need to be, father … the road to healing, which I feel you have only skirted in favour of focusing on the Moors’ troubles. Remember how much we love you, even during the times it feels as though we are apart.”

There were upsides to the gifts that his man-shape had long wrought upon him, after all. A raven, though more than capable in many areas of thought, could not have felt the same measure of pride and love that he felt alongside that lingering fear. All the badness that he felt was worth it, then, if he was free to feel such marvellous things, too.

“You’d make a good raven,” he said, his voice hoarse with pride. “All that wisdom in your bones.”

“I must have learnt something from you after all these years.” Aurora smirked, then released his hand. “ _ Now _ you are excused. Will you see the evening through with mother?”

“If she’ll allow it. Wish me luck.”

“I don’t think you’ll need it,” she assured him, though sounded a touch uncertain. 

“Right. Well, I hope you will call on me if you need me, Aurora. I’ll have a lot of spare time on my hands.” Diaval stood up and brushed his knees off.

“You deserve the break. I know that you will be my envoy again, one day, because I know that you have the strength to overcome all this. At least now you can spend more time with mother. She has missed you so!”

“Really? Did she say that?”

“Well …” Aurora shifted a bit, then smirked again. “You know her. She has barely said a word since you left. I think she thought that you would never come back.”

Guilt. Sharp as an icy spear plunging straight into his chest. No -  _ worse _ , and he knew that for a fact. It hurt, but it paved the way for a fierce determination: he would not be like Stefan, he would never do the things that Stefan did, like abandon Maleficent when she had needed him most. He thought he’d never have the capacity for such a thing, but his life seemed so much bigger, so much more complicated than ever before, and it was only recently that he realised he  _ was _ capable of hurting the people that he loved. 

But he had learnt from it, and he would make things better. 

“I need to go,” he said quickly, gathering himself up. “I love you, diamond. Have a safe journey to Ulstead tomorrow.”

Before Aurora even had a chance to say goodbye, Diaval was transforming back into his raven-self. He flew over to her and clipped her head with his wing in a playful gesture, and her laughter followed him when he took off into the afternoon sky.

* * *

It took hours to get everything set up, if only because Diaval was something of a perfectionist when it came to his own work. He had an eye for the beautiful and if he were to offer something less than perfect to his Mistress -  _ Maleficent _ \- how could he even call himself a raven?

He knew less of fae customs than he did those of raven or humankind, and he did not have time to go seeking the forest fae to ask them how one might go about asking forgiveness (which he would, one day, on a journey to understand his mate and her people better than he currently did). What worked to his advantage was that Maleficent did not yet know much more than he did. So, he settled for offerings that had clear meanings for both of them.

He could only hope that she didn’t find it all ridiculous when she saw it - which she would, no doubt, but would she come around to it? Would she be too angry? 

Leaving his work behind, he flew off in search of Maleficent around their nest and eventually found her bathing in the hot springs nearby. It was a secretive little place set into the valleys of the mountains, right in the black crags of an old volcano. Landing on a twisted hunk of stone, Diaval took the opportunity to watch her a moment, admiring the pale glow of her skin and the glistening of her wet feathers. It made him feel things a raven reasonably should not have felt. The bird part of him did not quite know what to do with that except take up on another opportunity.

Show off. 

Flying in beside the steaming pool Maleficent occupied, he landed as gracefully as he could and strutted over, puffing out his feathers as he went. Maybe he was a little more bedraggled than usual, maybe there were spots of him that were scarred and missing feathers, but maybe she would like that. Maybe it made him look a bit tougher than he really was. 

She side-eyed him with a hard glare, then resumed bathing without a word. 

She wasn’t impressed, then. Not yet. Diaval strutted over to the other side of her, almost forgetting himself in his admiration of her great beauty. Moving his head somewhere near her ear, he bowed and opened his beak. 

“ _ Waka.” _

Maleficent glanced at him again, her startling eyes alight with confusion. Good - at least he had her attention. 

“ _ Awakawaka _ .”

“What on earth are you up to?” She asked him, sounding oddly cautious. 

Diaval strolled along the crooked rim of the spring, moving behind her again until he reached her other ear.

“ _ Awawawa.” _

“I see,” the faerie replied, rolling her eyes. With that, she settled back into the water and continued running her fingers through her wing feathers. “You’re in a silly mood.”

The raven made a few loud popping and whistling sounds, which sounded fairly impressive to his own ears, and he did succeed in getting her attention again. With her gaze upon him, he made several bowing motions with his head and turned about a bit, his wings spread to balance himself as his instincts compelled the odd little dance. Only when he saw the hint of a smile on the faerie’s lips did he stop and caw insistently at her, telling her in his own language that  _ you should consider my handsomeness and also I made you something and I want you to see it! _

He flew to the rocky ledge of the crags and then back again several times, hoping to indicate that he wanted her to follow him. He was, however unfortunately, stuck in his raven-shape, which was likely for the best; he was not sure what might have happened if his man-shape had seen Maleficent bathing there alone, her pale skin stark against the black of stone, her long hair clinging to her neck and shoulders. He might have passed out, and then the plan would be delayed.

It took several more journeys back and forth before Maleficent seemed to understand. Eventually, she stood up with a sigh and shook off her wings, regarding the raven with a cautious sort of look as though she expected him to go flying off without her at any moment. Pained by that, Diaval stayed close by and cawed throatily with encouragement when the faerie magically dried herself off and donned a fur-lined dress.

He hopped over to the ledge, looking back to make sure she was following him, then flew off towards the river down the dusty black hill. It was a short flight across the water to where they needed to go. Some minutes later, he flew into the quiet Godsong Grove, a mysterious clearing in the Forest of Waking that homed the ruins of an ancient cathedral. The setting sun cast orange light through the dark trees that guarded the place, the light touching old statues and carvings of deities whose faces had long since worn away.

There within the cathedral, underneath the cover of what remained of the roof, a blanket was neatly arranged on the ground. On top was a basket full of food picked especially for Maleficent, a scattering of petals and small jewels, and even a pile of bendy branches close by. The dilapidated hall was lit by glowing flowers and fireflies that hovered quietly about in the twilight. 

Diaval landed by the blanket of gifts. With some luck, he was finally able to transform again, picking himself up off the ground and then anxiously wringing his hands when Maleficent landed within the clearing. He was almost as nervous as the day of their handfasting, which had taken place within that very grove.

Maleficent moved towards him with a neutral expression, though her gaze lingered on the small assortment of gifts. She turned, then, and took in the quiet beauty of their surroundings, fireflies dancing about her dark wings. The only sound that came from the forest was the whisper of leaves, and the river bubbled gently in the distance. They were alone, and the solitude of the place made it feel as though they had all the time in the world.

Stepping gingerly towards her, Diaval took her hand and stooped down to kiss it with all the reverence that he felt. Maleficent watched him, her gaze softer, now, but still unsure.

“What is this for?” She asked, gesturing towards the gifts. She was trying to sound cold though not succeeding particularly well, of which she seemed more than aware as she glanced away. Kneeling down on the blanket, she gathered up the little jewels into her palms and admired them for a moment, watching the golden light of the fireflies reflect off their shining surfaces. 

“‘Cause I love you, Maleficent,” said Diaval, and he quickly joined her down there on the blanket, fiddling with his loose sleeve. “Only, I haven’t done a very good job of showin’ it. Not recently. You deserve better than all these arguments and all this uncertainty. You have deserved better than me.” Feeling her gaze upon him, he resumed intensely picking at the loose thread. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I want you to know that. I swear that I’ll be by your side for as long as fate allows. I think you’re just … amazin’, you’re the whole world to me. And … look -“

Rising to his knees, he reached for the small pile of branches and pulled them forward to show her how strong and bendy they were. 

“Look, first few branches for the little one’s nest. ‘Cause it doesn’t matter if it works for us or not, Maleficent; we’ll figure somethin’ out, won’t we? We’ll have our fledgeling one way or another.”

He turned to her once he had demonstrated with the branches and found her gazing at him, her beautiful eyes so soft and golden that he almost forgot his rampant train of thought. 

“Diaval -“

“No, no, it’s alright, y’see, I’ve got it all figured out. They’ll stay in our cave a while and then they can go into the one above once they’re old enough. That’s if they have wings, anyway … maybe we’ll have to move somewhere closer to the ground. All this stuff with Breoslaigh will blow over and we’ll be fine, like always.”

Still appearing uncertain, Maleficent did manage a sort of smile, though it was largely unconvincing. For some reason, Diaval could see worry in his mate’s carefully controlled features, and his heart sank.

“Sorry. We can think about all this later,” he said quickly, sitting back down beside her. “Maleficent? Oh, you’re right. Maybe we should wait until the threat of war is out the way. I ‘spose I got overexcited. But - your next season, er ... I’m not lettin’ you leave the nest. Just tellin’ you so you’re ready.”

The faerie smiled slightly at that. She took his hand into hers and held it on her lap, toying thoughtfully with his fingers.

“We can’t wait,” she murmured stoically, a crease forming at her brow. “We can’t wait until it is over, Diaval.”

“Oh.” It was Diaval’s turn to look confused, then. “Why?”

There was a small pause, during which Maleficent took a deep breath. She raised an eyebrow and peered coyly at him a moment.

“I wasn’t sure if you were ready to hear it, but now I know. It seems that your endeavours in Ulstead were more than successful.” Slowly, she moved his hand to her belly and held it there, a broad but vaguely worried sort of smile brightening her already marvellous countenance. “Well, well. Who would have thought, hm?”

It took Diaval a good moment to catch on. 

Staring at where his hand was flattened on her belly, he carefully reconstructed her words over and over in his head until they began to make some form of sense. Admittedly, he had tried to be optimistic in the matter but also cautious simply because they were two different creatures and their chances had seemed slim. There was no time to be thinking about it too in depth, however - the realisation struck him so suddenly that it felt like flying into glass (and he had done that more than once).

He looked between her and her belly, speechless. His mouth ran dry, but there was suddenly a surplus of hot moisture in his eyes that threatened to spill at any moment. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he exhaled giddily with shock, staring at Maleficent with all the sincere worship that he felt. 

“It worked?” He rasped, finally finding the wherewithal to wipe away the escaping tears. “Is this real? We’re havin’ a baby?”

“Yes,” the faerie breathed, briefly turning away to dab at a tear of her own. “More than successful, Diaval. There is not just one beginning to grow, but two.”

Diaval almost fainted. 

Blinking away the swirling spots in his vision, he took a moment to steady himself, gaping at Maleficent rather idiotically in his surprise. 

“Wait - twins? There’s two in there? Twins? There’s really two? We’re havin’-“

“Repeating it will not make it any more true, darling. I am sure of what I feel. My power grants me certain privileges, I suppose … Such a gift you have given me - but that is you all over, isn’t it? There should never have been any doubt.”

Diaval bowed his head, overwhelmed. 

“It’s my honour, Maleficent. To be the father of your children, I …”

Something flared in the faerie’s eyes, then. Her uncertainty was replaced with a striking determination. Rising to her knees, she put her hand on the shapeshifter’s chest and pushed him down onto his back. Once he was settled there among petals and those glittering jewels, she swung her leg over his thighs and seated herself there. Her wings shimmered in the golden light of the fireflies.

“I have no qualm with you fighting for what is right. It is your nature and it always will be. What frightens me is the prospect of losing you to the ignorant fear of humans, or the risen dead, or even …” she paused delicately, head tilting. “Even your own power. Aurora has good reason to keep you in the Moors. Whatever happens, we must emerge together. My children will not share the same childhood that I did.”

“I swear to you,” Diaval began, trying to sit up - only to find himself pushed back down again. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m gonna find a way to control this, an’ … this stuff with the other kingdoms, we’ll find a way to end it peacefully with Aurora leading the way.”

“Hm. Let us hope.” Maleficent pursed her lips a moment, slowly untying the laces of Diaval’s shirt. Once it was opened, she touched gently at the faint remnants of claw-marks and sent her golden magic into him to heal them. The magic coursed through every inch of his body, healing whatever ailments it found and leaving a pleasant tingling sensation in its wake. She sighed. “I missed you.”

“It must be a humourless life without me.”

“Perhaps, though there are no annoying ravens interrupting my bathing.”

“You were smilin’. I saw.” Diaval grinned crookedly up at her, marvelling. “I missed you, too. Can’t believe it, Maleficent. We’re gonna have little babies.”

“Yes. Girls, if what the forest fae say is true. The Phoenix line always bears girls.”

“Oh,” croaked Diaval, feeling himself welling up again. “Little girls.” 

“Indeed.” Maleficent arched an eyebrow, amused, though joyful tears still glittered in her treasure-gold eyes. “And all on the first try. What a gift it is to be parents. One that we can share together a second time over.”

She let him sit up that time, and they embraced tightly within the safe shadows of the cathedral, sharing in laughter and tears. There was a time not so long ago that neither of them would have thought such a thing possible - that they would be parents again, least of all alongside each other. In wake of it all, Diaval began to feel a measure of pride there in his chest, not only for Maleficent and their growing family, but … perhaps for himself, too. 

And the sheer relief he felt was extraordinary. How long had he spent fretting over how he would be received when he returned? Certainly, he had deserved the initial coldness, and many of the arguments had been a long time coming, but now it seemed that things just might be able to return to normal.

Though love could cast its shadows, it was a healer. Even death had not taken that power away from him. As much as he could not control the creatures that he became, he could always love; it was the very thing that drove him, that kept him going when the world was dark.

For love, he would do anything.

* * *

They had spent hours into the night there in that old, sacred grove, but when an uncomfortable feeling of being watched overcame them both, they decided to head for the nest. Perhaps it was the crumbling statues, perhaps it was the trees - whatever it was, it drove them from the sights of whatever forest entities might have been observing. 

Maleficent, too, seemed keen to go, gathering up her gifts in her arms and heading off into the glittering sky. Diaval followed, unable to keep his eyes off her, and while they flew he wondered if she really had any idea how much he worshipped the very ground that she walked on. Did she know? Were the banter and witty exchanges enough? Did he tell her enough? Was he overdoing it?

No sooner had he landed on the rocky ledge of their cave and transformed, he was being pulled inside by a pale hand and an impish smile. Hypnotised by her beauty in the dim, orange light of candles, he allowed himself to be guided into the nest and leapt upon, and he willingly partook in several long minutes of kissing and fevered touches. It did not take long for her to work her way on top of him again. Once she was triumphant, she sat up and peered mischievously down at him, her plush, red lips all the redder.

“We should make up for lost time,” she advised breathlessly. Her wings were shaking in an enticing manner, her velvety feathers sparkling like diamonds in the candlelight.

Diaval stared. Inwardly, he was doing his utmost to control himself so as to not appear a licentious fool.

“What d’you mean?”

“Well …” the faerie continued playfully, cocking her head. Holding his gaze, she then made her intentions all the more apparent by untying the front of her dress and allowing it to part, revealing her beauty to him in its entirety. Diaval just gaped; he was sure he would never really come to terms with it - especially not when she looked at him like that, her smile showing off the white gleam of her fangs. 

“Ah,” he managed.

“Ah. I would say I have craved your touch, but it might go to your head.”

“It’s goin’ somewhere, believe me.”

“Oh, dear.” Her brow twitched as she cast her gaze along his body. “Were you always this quick to please?”

Diaval nodded vehemently. “You have no idea.”

She began to work on the laces of his trousers, and his mind got lost in a whirlwind. It was all so much quicker than before. Driven by need, he grabbed desperately at her thighs when she moved forwards to seat herself upon him - and then his head was thrown back, fingers digging in to the warm, supple flesh beneath them. It became harder to breathe and a strange cold prickled over his face. 

“Diaval,” he heard her say, and then she was guiding his face back towards her. “Look at me. Is this a welcome venture?”

Her face was a blur above him. Blinking several times, he focused on her, feeling that rising discomfort in his stomach begin to ebb back from whence it came. This was their nest. They were safe. He loved Maleficent more than life itself, and he wanted the chance to show her again.

“Yes, I really - I need you, Maleficent.”

“Do not look away, then,” she replied sternly. Taking his hands into hers, she guided them to her hips and held them there. “You can’t be anywhere else if I am right here with you.”

He did not look away. Not for a moment.

Some time later, when moonlight seeped into the opening of their cave, they laid entwined together there amidst warm blankets and wings. Maleficent rested her head on Diaval’s chest, slowly moving the tips of her fingers about his abdomen. In turn, he stroked her long, silken hair, silently wishing that such a peaceful, perfect moment could last forever. She was more content than he had seen her since returning, and it was something he felt a fierce need to protect.

Eventually, she leaned up on her elbow and gazed at him, drawing a playful little line down his pointed nose. It was wonderful to see that smile on her lips and in her eyes. It was amazing the way she radiated hope despite all that was behind them and all that was ahead. Struck with emotion, he caught her hand in his and gently kissed it - and then he rolled to face her, pressing kisses to every part of her that he could reach. 

Maleficent laughed and arranged herself on her back in wake of his continued affections.

“Insatiable creature,” she chastised, though moved eagerly into his touch. When he caressed her cheek and moved up to kiss her lips, she watched him with such love that Diaval’s breath caught.

“Sappy, more like,” he warned with a smirk once he had recovered.

“Oh, dear.” The faerie raised her eyebrows. “Dare I ask?”

Holding her gaze, Diaval combed his fingers back through her hair and then held her face in his hands, allowing a moment of seriousness. Her eyes glittered up at him like precious gold within a dark river’s edge, all at once mysterious and inviting and beautiful. They did not bear the coldness of mere gold, however, for they were filled with love. Diaval was forced to question how he had managed such a thing whenever he saw it.

“I’ve known you for so long and seen all your battles. I used to watch over you right here in this nest when your rage was young. You’ve come so far. You should be proud of yourself, y’know. And you’re such an amazin’ mother. I can’t wait to meet our little ones, Maleficent. I can’t wait.”

Her eyelids shyly fluttered, and she smiled.

“The world is a very different place since then,” she said softly, and leaned up to kiss him.

They enjoyed the night together for hours on end having earned themselves a period of peace. When they slept, it was uninterrupted, and the days that followed were not spoiled by the many weights of the Moors’ problems. They became lost in their own world there in the mountains beside the river, not parting from each other for even a moment, excited to be alone with the one they loved and the notion of their growing family.

For two days they enjoyed their private celebrations. They felt all the better for it, lighter and happier than the world had allowed them to be for some time. Upon the evening of the second day, they retired to a secluded little forested spot at the base of the mountains and entertained each other there for a while - Maleficent rested on her back on a small, grassy hill and created magical, glittering clouds from her elegant fingers, only giving them true form when Diaval decided to go leaping onto them from the tops of trees.

Hopping from cloud to cloud, Diaval turned back to her every now and then to make sure she was watching. Upon reaching the highest cloud, he stood on the very edge of it and prepared himself to jump back down, forming an elaborate and even heroic pose before falling forwards with the intention of landing on the puff of cloud skirting a pond below. 

The cloud mysteriously disappeared with a  _ pop, _ and poor Diaval soared straight down through swirls of glitter and did - much to his great surprise - land face first into the pond.

Re-emerging from the depths with a gasp, he floundered over to the edge and glared at Maleficent, who was taking great care to maintain her position of innocence as she continued conjuring magical clouds, the tiniest of smirks to her lips. 

“You did that on purpose!” Diaval proclaimed with great offence. “That would have been the best dive any raven has ever done without wings!”

“You are currently the  _ only _ raven without wings.”

“Exactly!” Grumbling, Diaval removed a toad from atop his head and then crawled out of the water. Marching up to the faerie, he stood before her with his hands on his hips and an adamant expression. “Will you dry me off?”

Maleficent’s tiny little smile twitched. Glancing at him, she wiggled her fingers in his direction and then cast a slow, appreciative glance down his form. Mystified by that, his answer only came when he looked down and realised that her method of ‘drying him off’ and been to remove him of clothes entirely.

“Oh,” he managed, eyebrows shooting for his hairline. “That wasn’t what I had in mind, y’know. I’m still covered in water!”

“I know,” was her short response. 

“Oh. Oh, I see how it is. You’re objectifyin’ me, is that it? That was your master plan all along. Let’s throw poor old Diaval into a pond for our own wicked purposes, right?”

“I am merely appreciating your beauty, darling,” the faerie retorted, maintaining her supposed innocence with a simple flutter of her long eyelashes. “The most beautiful of all ravens, and perhaps the most beautiful of all men.”

“Well …” Surprised and then extremely satisfied with her answer, Diaval relented in wake of a meticulously encouraged spurt of vanity. Subconsciously flexing a bit, he strutted over and then flopped onto a magical cloud that floated past him, and he arranged himself into a inviting pose. Picking at a flower as he went, he held the stem between his teeth and thought he looked extremely seductive in doing so, though the reality was probably quite different. “There’sh no perhapsh about it!”

It was apparently part of the charm for Maleficent, who at first made an attempt to ignore his endeavours, but then moments later was making for him in predatory fashion. With a wave of her hand, the cloud gently lowered Diaval to the ground in prime position for her to sit astride him. It was fortunate that they seemed to be very much alone, given the look on her face. He quickly lobbed the flower out of his mouth.

“Be gentle,” he beseeched, inwardly intrigued. “I’m exhausted. I can barely walk. I have little left to give you, Maleficent.”

She scoffed at him. “You fibber. You have lived up to your demonic reputation entirely since you came back.”

“That’s not fair. No demon is half as good at charming faeries than I am, are they? Even Borra doesn’t hate me half as much as he used to. Borra the Bastard. I wonder what he’s -“

“Let us not speak of him at this moment, shall we?”

“Oh, right you are.”

Leaning up, he rolled her off him and leaned over her, immediately flattening down to pay attention to the side of her elegant neck. Her body rose to meet his, and her hand slid up the back of his neck and into his hair to grip it.

“I miss your longer hair,” she muttered, drawing his attention back to her face. She wore a soft, playful pout.

“It’ll grow back. I’d try to shapeshift it back, but I might end up with a lone unicorn horn or somethin’. Would you still love me if I had a unicorn horn?”

Maleficent spluttered with sudden laughter. It seemed to take her by surprise as much as it did Diaval, who leaned up again to smirk smugly down at her. The faerie’s laughter, when she was not in the presence of those who necessitated her traditionally cold demeanour, was truly the most beautiful sound in the world.

“That doesn’t answer me!” Diaval whined, prodding her in the side. “What if one day I wake up and I’m covered in toad warts? What then?”

That only inspired Maleficent to laugh even harder. Infatuated with the sight of it, Diaval sincerely considered shapeshifting something hugely irregular for the sole purpose of his mate’s enjoyment, though she distracted him from the idea by gazing up at him with a warm, lingering smile as her laughter ebbed.

“You need not fear. You loved me at my very worst. I think you could get away with toad warts.”

Feeling a pleasant surge of warmth in his chest, Diaval beamed from ear to ear.

“That’s true love, Maleficent,” he observed with a great deal of pride. “What about a humongous beard? I’ve always wondered what it’d feel like to have a proper one.”

“Hm.” The faerie arched an eyebrow. “Don’t push it.”

Soon, they fell back into more intimate rhythms, eagerly making the most of their time alone, for both were aware that this period of peace was no true peace at all. It was more of a peak through a window into a warm, cosy room to which there was no door. Diaval obliged the necessity of it as whole-heartedly as he could. This quiet happiness was what they deserved, and by experiencing it again if but for a moment, he became truly determined that the Moors would once again see a time of peace.

That was the world their children deserved to grow up in.

It was all the more annoying, then, when the sound of powerful wings emerged upwind. A faerie was headed in their direction. Maleficent heard it first - she sneered suddenly and took Diaval’s hands before he could carry on tugging playfully at the hem of her dress. Lost in a pleasant haze, Diaval blinked foolishly at her in confusion, then frowned when he too heard the approach of another. 

“Whossat?” He grumbled, jumping slightly as his clothes were magicked back onto his body. It was for the best, he supposed. He had never really understood other people’s aversion to nakedness until one fated day, twenty years ago, when he had bathed near a village in Perceforest and had ended up being chased out of the river by enraged farmers, dragging his trousers along behind him.

Maleficent did not answer. Ascending gracefully to her feet, she tugged her dress down and regarded the sky with cold vexation. She seemed unusually annoyed. Diaval was hardly surprised, though that changed when the visitor made themselves.

Merin, the leader and elder of the forest fae, glided down into the forest with a pleasant jingle of the many stone raven-head beads in her hair. She, too, appeared to be rather annoyed when she walked forwards and appraised them both, likely taking in the flushed faces and messy hair. More than that, there was an instant awkwardness that Diaval picked up on - no, a hostility, even, on Maleficent’s part. Had something happened between the pair while he was gone?

“Really, now,” the elder greeted them, without so much as a ‘hello’ or ‘goodness, it’s been a long time since I have seen you, Diaval’.

Confused and still a bit dazed, Diaval just hung back and glanced at the pair with rising trepidation. 

“What?” Maleficent snapped.

“There’s no need for that. As lovely as it is to see you enjoying yourselves for once, you can’t expect to fool around in the middle of the Moors and not be seen. Oh, to be young!” Merin flicked out her dark, tattered wings indignantly, then sighed. “I came to talk to you, if you can keep your hands off each other long enough, hm?”

Diaval silently prepared for the moment Maleficent exploded. She didn’t, though he could feel the heat of anger already rolling off her in waves, threatening to be made physical with the power of her green magic at any moment. He gently took her hand. Surprised to find Merin staring at him when he turned, he became more and more uncomfortable as the intensity of her gleaming, green eyes seemed to want to pierce right through him. 

“Something is different about you,” she bluntly observed, jabbing her staff towards him in that way she did.

“Yeah, uh … bad haircut, but it’s fine. I’m not grievin’ it anymore. Well, not a lot -“

“I’ve come to ask a favour,” Merin interrupted, but she too found herself cut off from whatever she was about to ask.

Maleficent’s hand was raised. A silent and formidable gesture to stop talking.

“No. Diaval, will you return to the forest and collect branches for the nest?”

Even more confused, now, the shapeshifter regarded the two women a moment longer.

“Er, yes, but -“

“I will speak to you at home.” 

There was no arguing with her. Unable to help but wonder why he was being dismissed so abruptly, he did respectfully bow out of the conversation without a second to spare, acknowledging that whatever was going on between the two needed to run its course without an audience. At once, he transformed into a raven and took off into the evening sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done if you managed to keep your dinner down through this one. Thanks for reading!


	5. A Shadow of White

Maleficent was reminded quite abruptly just how top-heavy the world was. With a single glance or word from the wrong person, everything so easily came toppling over. Merin’s presence served as a reminder that there was a world outside the mountains, a reminder that Maleficent had been slowly preparing for, but had not yet been ready to face so soon after breaking the good news of her pregnancy to her mate. 

Not only that, Merin’s presence meant something else, too.

“You already have my answer. I told you a week ago,” Maleficent said coldly, breaking the silence that followed Diaval’s departure. 

“I didn’t come about that,” Merin barked back. She was probably one of the very few people who was not intimidated by Maleficent, and certainly was never afraid to bite back or assert her more experienced opinion. The elder approached, her eyes hard with anger, and … something else. Uncertainty, perhaps? Or could it even be a fear brought about by whatever it was she had come to say?

“Then what?”

“Well, not  _ just _ about that. I still think that you should be considering your future among your people. I was only ever meant to be an interim leader, just as I was when I stepped in following your father’s death.”

Hearing other fae speak of either of her parents always felt so strange. She could not remember them, and so to hear of them gave them a sort of substance that Maleficent had never properly known. They were faeries that once walked and flew in the sky, they were faeries that had loved each other and their people. They were characters in a tragic fairytale given flesh by small, purposeful reminders from the likes of Merin, who had been lucky enough to know them personally.

Maleficent took a deep, steadying breath.

“I am the Guardian of the Moors,” she said clearly. Slowly, in the desire to hammer in the point. “I am not the leader of a people I have known for all of a few years. I might have my father’s blood, but I do not have his experience. I know how to defend the Moors, for I have done it my entire life and I do not intend to stop because you cannot find a successor.”

“The Phoenix has often stepped in to lead in times of strife, Maleficent. There is no better time now that the humans are sharpening their iron axes yet again -“

“I shall not be defined by the magic I wield. I care little about the line I inherited it from. What I care about is that it gave me the means to save the people I love when they were in peril. It saved me, not only from Queen Ingrith’s iron, but it raised me alongside the rivers and the trees and my own wit. Whatever significance the Phoenix has for you does not make me a leader. I have told you this!”

“Aye, you did.” Merin relented, though still - infuriatingly - did not sound convinced. “That wasn’t really why I came, though I had hoped you’d taken the time to at least think about it. Or at least think about  _ anything _ that might be plaguing the Moors right now, hm? Instead, I find you burying your head in the sand.” Her tone was as sharp as an eagle’s beak. “When he was gone, nobody heard anything from you. Is this what Maleficent does when she is frightened?”

If there was anything Maleficent despised, it was being scolded as though she were a mere child. Merin had a particular talent for that, not only because she was far older, but because she did not have any time for what she perceived as nonsense. The elder had lived through many terrible things and yet persisted, and it was for that reason Maleficent ever listened to her. That her cutting tongue only ever spoke the truth was more painful than any kind of insult could be.

“Tell me: would you prefer it if I was vengeful?” Maleficent retorted, her tone so musically callous that it sounded petty even to her own ears. “If my daughter or her son were harmed in that invasion, I might have just wiped Breoslaigh off the face of the earth. And certainly, I fretted for the fate of my mate in a world that does so love to take advantage of the kind - which I fear could be the purpose of your poorly timed visit today.”

“Not poorly timed. I am trying to take a step forwards in the name of the Moors while everybody else dances on the coattails of uncertainty! I have lived and served my people for six-hundred years, and I have seen countless wars destroy this kingdom piece by piece. My own family were slain by mankind, Maleficent. I do not take such matters lightly! We  _ are  _ in enormous peril, and not just from the likes of humans, I fear.”

Maleficent remained silent, her jaw tensing. She had nothing left to argue back with, and even felt small following Merin’s impassioned words. Still, she could not accept that spending time with her growing family following such struggles had been an act of selfishness. It was Aurora’s wish that the Moors was not propelled into a war, and attempting to antagonise the other kingdoms further would surely dash such a hope.

“There is a darkness falling over the Moors,” Merin continued, softening her hoarse voice just a little. “I can feel it growing each passing day. It’s in the whisper of the trees and the chill of the wind. The land is trying to tell us something. It goes beyond political squabbles, and yet we are so easily distracted by what the kings and queens of our neighbours might think of us.”

“There have been no complaints from the fairies,” Maleficent said, her brow furrowed in rising concern. “I have not felt anything.”

“This is not a matter of fairy magic. Something foul is blowing in from the sea. It’s a kind of magic even older than our own. I can’t make head nor tail of it. All I know is that the ravens on the island are behaving strangely. Viciously, even! And there is such an air of foreboding within our ancestral forest … I thought to ask you and Diaval to visit to see if you can make sense of it all.”

“Pray tell, how am I supposed to make sense of it if it is not fairy magic? And what is Diaval supposed to do about it?”

Merin sighed with a touch of impatience. She began to move about the small clearing, looking into the pond and then up into the crowns of the trees, as if searching for something.

“Do you remember what it was like to be in the presence of our clan’s father spirit? When you brought Diaval to the fairy ring to be revived?” She asked. “The ring awoke from an age old slumber, if but for a minute. They are, of course, where the veil between our world and the Otherworld become weakest. You might have felt that spirit magic for yourself when Mori’ka returned. Like your own power, Otherworld magic is a balance of life and death, only … the Phoenix is different to all other spirits. Hm. Perhaps that is why your healing power was stifled when the Feth Fiadha came.”

Maleficent wanted to understand, but it proved difficult. All she knew of the Moors was what she had seen for herself. She knew very little of its past, least of all the history of her own ancestors and the Dark Fae. The stone rings and ruins interspersed among the trees were simply remnants of a lost civilisation, of which she knew nothing at all. Trying in vain to make sense of what was being said to her, she relented and shook her head, feeling fear stab at her heart.

“What? What made the Phoenix different from other spirits?” 

It seemed as good a place to start as any.

“My mother once told me that the most powerful beings in nature came to be even before this world. Most emerged from the light of the stars themselves, while others … they came from the darkness in between. They infused this land with their magic and became one with it. As for the Phoenix, it is said that a golden fire fell from the heavens, and from it a single egg fell. The spirit within was a mystery. She held the power of both light and dark. Life and death. The gods of this world feared her for that reason. When they retreated to the Otherworld, they banished her to the realm of men, and here her soul has lingered ever since, passed down from mother to daughter.”

Her initial anger receding in favour of confusion and a reluctant intrigue, Maleficent watched Merin in silence as the elder continued to walk slowly about the place. If what she understood of the story was correct, then the spirit of the Phoenix was an entity all of her own, one which even the gods themselves had feared. She was unwelcome in the Otherworld, her soul doomed to pass down through the ages, never to move on. Such a thought made Maleficent feel hollow. Frightened, even. 

“We need to locate what force is bringing all this Otherworld magic to our home. No doubt it will have something to do with the emergence of the Feth Fiadha. And that dratted white raven, too, who can’t seem to mind his own business.”

Maleficent’s blood turned cold in her veins. 

“You have seen this creature?”

“Seen it? Of course I’ve seen it! Every night, there he is perched in the trees or circling in the sky. I’ve a good mind to shoot him down and ask him what he wants.”

At once, Maleficent strode forwards and surprised Merin by grasping her forearm, a sudden desperation taking hold.

“Does that raven not look familiar to you?”

That gave the elder pause. She stared at the younger faerie, her pointed brows raising.

“What are you saying? That it’s something to do with Diaval?”

Maleficent stared at her a moment more, then glanced away.

“I don’t know. The presence of such a creature is strange. I cannot make sense of it.”

“Indeed. It is not a natural entity, that’s for certain! Maleficent, your soul’s banishment from the Otherworld means you are blinded to its magic, but it is not so different from your own. I believe that you can connect to the forces that silently govern the matters of nature, life, and death as easily as you do the magic of fairies. Perhaps you should begin with Diaval.”

The suggestion was a confusing one. What did anything of what Merin said have to do with Diaval? Maleficent thought on it a moment more - and then it hit her. Of course, the art of true shapeshifting was no kind of fairy magic at all, but that of a spirit that had once called this land his home. Otherworld magic. That was why she could not aid in his transformations when they went awry: it was always done with good intentions, and thus her magic was stifled by the mysterious presence within him.

“What are you saying?” She pressed. “That I might understand this magic if I seek to understand his, first?”

“It’s a start, isn’t it? And if you look deeply enough, maybe you will find the answers that you seek. I think that … Well, sometimes things are not always what they seem.” Merin’s eyes narrowed. “He  _ is _ hiding something, even if he does not know it yet. And to me it feels much like whatever dark thing is that lingers about the Moors. Find out what it is, Maleficent, and help save this kingdom. And come to the island, for goodness sake! I need you both there!”

Maleficent released Merin’s wrist, disturbed. Her gaze turned towards the trees. They were silent, telling no secrets nor explaining the mystery of the force haunting them, but perhaps their silence was all she needed to hear. As the Guardian of the Moors, it was her responsibility to get to the bottom of this mystery, even if she did not truly understand what it was she was dealing with.

“Fine.” She said shortly. “I shall not take the mantle of leadership from you, Merin, but I will work with you in driving out whatever evil is seeping in to this place, beginning with the ancestral forest. I shall fly there this evening.”

At that, Merin sighed with sincere relief, and she beheld the other faerie with what might actually have been a moment of affection.

“Thank you. Though … we do need Diaval there, too,” the elder responded pointedly. “He is sensitive to the stone rings. And - the ravens, too.”

“Diaval has been relieved of his duties by the queen. He will not be involved.”

“Oh, yes, for compassionate reasons, I am sure!” Merin lamented, slamming the butt of her staff into the ground in frustration. “I understand, but I’m afraid that this all goes beyond us as individuals! With all due respect to the queen, you and Diaval have gifts that are not to be squandered in times such as these! In the end, we  _ must _ come to the bottom of all this, and the flame of Tech Duinn  _ must _ be restored to the place from which it was stolen by the Red Druids. And I know full well that neither of you will be content sitting inactive while people across the kingdoms are suffering, no matter how much you in particular try not to care about it.”

Anger returned, hot and blistering. Maleficent glared, though found the wherewithal to consider - and to see the truth in - Merin’s words. The hardest part about any of it was accepting the truth: that for the sake of humanity, they would all be forced to put themselves in harm’s way yet again. There was no sense in questioning why such cruel twists of fate befell them time and time again, not yet. The only option, as ever, was to fight, and the more people to hand, the better.

But what if she lost them?

Such a possibility was one that she could not … nay,  _ would _ not face.

Turning her back to Merin, she adorned an air of dismissive frostiness that would curl the petals of the most bountiful of flowers.

“It shall be discussed among our family. That is all I can tell you,” she offered flatly. “Help shall be lended to you tonight, though I expect you to tell us everything you know about the Otherworld and that magical flame in return.”

“Of course I’ll tell you. I’ll shout it across the entire Moors if I have to! Believe me, Maleficent, I wish that I could be relaying good news for once. Gods know, this place needs something to celebrate again.”

“There is some good news. Only, it is difficult to find the time to break it, given the circumstances.” 

Maleficent considered the option of relaying it there and then. She was hardly pleased with the nature of Merin’s visit, nor was she as close to the forest fae as she was her own family. 

However, she had never known her own mother.

She did not turn, though could feel the elder’s expectant gaze on the back of her. 

“I do resent the implication that I have been … what was it? Burying my head in the sand?” Maleficent continued. “I was not silent because a man was not by my side. With or without Diaval, I am the protector of this kingdom, and it is a position that I shall never relinquish, not to loss or pain or anything else. I  _ did _ fear that I had lost my greatest friend and father of my children. While I am mindful of the threats that linger around every corner, I needed a moment to ensure that this is all real. That things can be like this again, one day. This is what we are fighting for, is it not? Our families?”

“Our children,” Merin murmured back agreeably. “Indeed. I hope you might forgive my phrasing, then. It is only that … eurgh, even  _ I _ am frightened by all this. I thought I’d seen it all already.” She paused briefly, humming thoughtfully to herself. “Well! Last I heard, you both only had the one child! Is that your good news, girl? Is that why you’re diddling to your hearts’ content, inseparable?”

Maleficent raised her eyebrows and glanced over her shoulder at the other faerie, finding her creased face stretched with a fanged smile.

“What?  _ Diddling _ ?”

“Yes! However unfortunate it was for us all that I stumbled across it, it is good to see the concerns you came to me with before have been lain to rest. Is it true, then? Are you pregnant? Come, come, tell me! I must know!”

Somewhat perturbed by the sudden enthusiasm she was faced with, Maleficent relented and gazed cluelessly at the other woman. Apparently, that was enough of an answer. Merin’s eyes positively lit up, and for a time, the elder’s worry and irritation was hidden within the shadow cast by her joy.

“Oh! A blessing indeed! Oh, my dear, what wonderful news. Our clan will be keen to celebrate. Finally, some light in the midst of all this darkness! Pray tell, who else knows?”

“Only you and Diaval. Merin, as I said, I shall help you with your endeavours, but I will do nothing that might put my family in harm’s way. You may disagree with the queen’s insistence that Diaval in particular stays here, but her fear is not unfounded. And neither is mine.”

“Yes, but …!” Merin attempted, ramping up again to argue. This time, she sighed, and her wings sagged behind her. “I understand. However, I really fear that there is no hiding from that which is all around us. The white raven is only the beginning.” When Maleficent deigned not to answer, she closed her eyes and frowned deeply, opening up her dark wings. “Congratulations on your news. My wish is only that the future becomes a welcome prospect for us all.”

The faerie’s wings carried her high into the air and away she went, leaving those vaguely ominous words behind for Maleficent to consider with great concern.

Otherworld magic? How was it she had only just learnt of such a thing? Truly, she had not considered that Diaval’s shapeshifting was the product of one of the most archaic forms of nature magic, but it did make sense, for it felt so different to her own power. One designed for a specific purpose, a gift from a spirit born from the chaos of nature. It was no wonder that he had trouble controlling it.

And then there were his strange dreams, which still persisted even if he did not speak of them. The sleepwalking, too, was as frequent as ever, and the decidedly odd things he murmured in his sleep. He was never a stranger to such things before the Moon Witch, though it had never been so bad, and Maleficent was beginning to wonder if there was more to it all than the trauma of the things she had done and his brief dip into the Otherworld.

Merin had mentioned the ravens, that their behaviour was vicious. Diaval was not at all that way, though decidedly a little …  _ off _ , sometimes. Lost in a mire of his own thoughts, or just a bit vacant. Maybe there was more to that than anybody realised. And maybe it was all tied with this supposed darkness that was creeping into their homeland, which Merin seemed to think was getting worse.

And then there was the white raven.

Fear panged within the faerie’s heart. 

Heading off into the forest, she sought out Diaval and eventually found him in the river in the shape of a bear (which seemed to be a particular favourite of his). She stood at the river’s edge and folded her arms about herself, gazing into the water, into the sky, searching, just as Merin had. She could not help but notice the pile of branches scattered nearby.

Diaval’s ears perked up when he noticed her. With a joyful huff did he heave his great body through the water, much to the disappointment of the sprites that were taking up residence in his warm fur. He lumbered out onto the bank and shook himself off, and out of habit, Maleficent cast a shield of magic around her as water splattered all around.

She took the opportunity to analyse the magic that took hold as Diaval transformed. The bigger the creature he was transforming into, the more chaotic that strange wind became. As it was, his man-shape offered a fair display as the wind, which always blew in from the sea, picked up the leaves and the feathers and swirled them in a brief cyclone around him. There was little time for her to do much else but observe. 

Diaval stood there with his hands on his hips and an expression of concern. He nodded towards the forest.

“What was that all about, then? Did you two have a fallin’ out?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. It is simply that she often does not know how to take no as an answer.” Hesitating a moment, she waved a hand and used magic to dry Diaval off. “She would like me to lead the forest clan. It is in my blood, just as the Phoenix is.”

Diaval seemed just as surprised by that as she had been.

“Oh.” He eyed her closely, sympathy arising. “If I’m frank, Maleficent, you don’t seem too thrilled by the prospect. They can’t expect you to guard the Moors and lead the forest fae at the same time, can they?”

“Supposedly it is customary for the Phoenix line to do so in times such as these. Times of war or uncertainty. We are very much in the latter and perhaps soon to be the former. Oh, don’t even ask me why they would think such a thing! It feels like an outdated human tradition more than any true fae custom.”

“I suppose they think that such a faerie comes equipped with the right skills for the job.”

“Hm.” Turning from him, Maleficent peered down into the pristine waters at her feet, finding her own pale reflection therein. She could see well enough the fear in her eyes now that her anger had mostly waned. She could feel the hollowness of it in the very pits of her stomach. “I still have much to learn about my own people and their culture. It feels like every day I am still discovering something new about them. Why do they expect me to lead them still?”

Diaval stepped over the pile of branches and moved to her to place a gentle, reassuring hand on the bend of her elbow.

“If the Phoenix steps in when things get rough, maybe it isn’t somebody with such in-depth knowledge that they need,” he advised calmly. “Maybe it’s someone of strong mind and will who’s willin’ to do what’s necessary. Somebody who’s seen war and has learnt from it. That is you, Maleficent, but … I think you could do just as good a job by protecting the Moors as you always have. There’s less need for the forest fae to be involved with the politics side o’ things with Aurora around. The decision to lead ‘em lies with you.” Smiling, he gave her a soft squeeze. “You can do anythin’ you put your mind to. I really believe that. But if it’s at the expense of your own happiness, then it does need more thought.”

Considering that, Maleficent bowed her head and slid her hand atop his.

“I hardly have the best history as a leader. I kept the Moors trapped in a darkness of my own making for years.”

“Oh, but things are so different since then, aren’t they? You’ve grown and changed from that. I know it, Maleficent. I’ve been there the whole time. I could see right through you as you sat there cackling on your throne, y’know.” Pausing when she threw him a sharp look, his smile turned somewhat apologetic. “This love in you is a fierce one. You’d give your all to protect this place and the children in it. And you’re so strong! It’s no wonder they look at you and see the Phoenix. Not ‘cause of your power, but your strength and ferocity. Your wits. You’d be amazin’.”

“I suppose the past is better left behind, isn’t it?” She returned unsurely.

“The past is there to learn from, I think. Not to hinder us goin’ forwards. But, whatever you decide, just don’t forget about you. There’s a lot on your plate as it is.”

Maleficent nodded, near lost in thought. There was so much to consider in the scheme of things: her own family, for one. The mysterious presence in the Moors that had little bearing on her ability to lead or maybe even the war they faced. There was the threat of the Feth Fiadha. No less importantly, the fact she was pregnant and not quite as willing as she usually was to throw herself into danger and face it head on. Her children would not suffer any mistakes of hers. Never again.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’ll think on it. It would be easier if we knew what on earth is going to happen with Breoslaigh and Perceforest. Their continued silence is becoming, well …”

“A bit threatening?” Diaval offered.

“Rather.” Maleficent turned to him, then, moving close enough that she could lean back against his chest. She guided his hand down to rest on the plain of her lower stomach. It comforted her more than anything, as she considered everything else Merin told her. “Diaval … There is yet more. Merin seems to think that there is an evil of a different kind beginning to emerge here in the Moors, and I’m inclined to believe her.”

Her mate shifted a bit at that, though said nothing.

“She said there is something of an unbalance in the ancestral forest and the ravens there,” she continued, watching him carefully for some sort of reaction. 

He seemed disturbed by the news more than anything and not at all knowledgeable. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved by that or not.

“Probably somethin’ to do with the fairy ring, right? The one with the púca statues.”

At that, Maleficent’s features hardened. She recalled him mentioning something about encountering a strange fairy ring in Breoslaigh and the terrifying vision that came with it, though he’d moved on quickly from that, for he was in the middle of telling Aurora about what he’d been doing in the kingdom at the time. His apparent sensitivity, as Merin put it, to the various old rings of stone, mushrooms, or grass dotted about the land, was still as mysterious as the day he’d first touched the statue of Mori’ka on the Isle of Ancestry years ago. Even then, before things had begun to crumble, he had been presented with a disturbing image of the past.

“Perhaps.” Still watching him, she frowned. “Otherworld magic, she said. The ring seems a likely culprit. Almost as though a corruption of some sort is draining out of it, or -“

“Oh, my gods.”

Diaval’s jaw was hanging open. Surprised by the interruption, Maleficent faced him and was met with an expression of unbridled shock. Her mate seemed simultaneously flummoxed and as though he’d just come to some awesome realisation. 

“ _ What _ ?”

“I think I just -  _ you _ just - the ring in the mire! Maybe that’s how we can end this war before it begins!”

It was Maleficent’s turn to be flummoxed. She was forced to quickly find her balance when Diaval paraded away from her to pace like a stressed beast in a cage, running his hands back through his hair.

“Oh, it all sort of makes sense! At least - that part of it does. Maybe. Oh, I need to see Aurora and convince her to take me to the meeting in Ulstead tomorrow! I have an idea that really could make this all go away!”

Whatever it was he planned, it had to be some sort of miracle to get them all out of the mess they were in. Though she would always trust Diaval and his valuable counsel, she remained somewhat sceptical in this instance, feeling as though she was being led in the dark by someone who had no real idea of where they were going, either.

“You are supposed to be staying here,” she reminded him sternly. “Enjoying yourself. Resting!”

“Oh -“ Diaval waved that off and huffed a crude raspberry sound through his lips. “I’m rested! It’s been days! Besides, what am I supposed to do? Sit here twiddlin’ my thumbs while the Moors walks into another war? I - Maleficent, I can  _ help.  _ I can! I saw the flame and Queen Orlaith with my own two eyes. And that fairy ring, too! I know what we have to do. I just need to convince the others to be on board before I get myself into trouble.”

Disturbed by his almost giddy enthusiasm, Maleficent did not greet it with her own. 

“You might recall a moment of your own advice, darling,” she said lowly, an eyebrow arched in displeasure. “If something is at the expense of your happiness, then it does need more thought. Is that not what you said?”

“Yes, but …” Diaval ran a hand back through his hair again. It was sticking up on end by the time he was done with it. Smiling insistently at her, he gestured quite frantically down at himself. “I’m fine. Look at me, Maleficent. I’m eatin’, sleepin’ better. I haven’t had a bad transformation since I came back. What else is there for me to recuperate?”

“You know the answer to that.” 

Diaval glanced away, his knee jerking a bit with impatience. 

“That doesn’t matter right now. I can make a difference to everythin’ going on in the present. I must be seeing all this stuff for a reason!”

“You do seem remarkably determined to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders in the present. It’s almost as though you feel you have something to prove.”

His face fell at that. In the silence that followed, he regarded her with surprise, then a mild anger, then a stubborn frown as he shook his head. Still shaking his head, he quickly headed past her and made for the trees in the general direction of the castle.

“I want to help my family and our kingdoms, Maleficent, that’s all. All I have to prove is the truth about the fairy ring in Breoslaigh. Are you coming?”

The faerie opened her wings and turned back to the lake.

“I told Merin I would investigate the island tonight. However, seeing as you’re so determined to come to Ulstead tomorrow, I shall likely see you then.”

She was unhappy with the frostiness of the farewell. Perhaps he deserved it, perhaps not. It was a sour ending to the short but pleasant days they’d spent together in their nest and the surrounding wilderness celebrating the prospect of parenthood, but he did truly infuriate her with his reluctance to listen to advice as easily as he gave it.

And she worried. Deeply. They were all in over their heads, but perhaps none more so than Diaval, who had been brought into the unfolding difficulties in a state of vulnerability and confusion. How well was he really navigating it all? When the time came, would he truly be ready to step up to the trials of fatherhood again?

Of course he would. He would. 

The question was whether any of them would even make it that far. Inwardly, she hoped that Diaval’s hunch, whatever it might have been, would truly serve as the saving grace.


	6. The Warrior Queen

Aurora groaned, lying flat on her back in the grass.

Phillip had tripped her a third time. Or was it the fourth? 

Every inch of her ached with exertion. Her arms were numb, and she knew she would wake up the next day completely unable to move. Regardless, she reached for the sword lying inches away and yanked it towards her, glaring up at Phillip as he smirked down at her.

“Is tripping really a part of swordplay?” She asked, using the sword to push herself up on her wobbly legs. Taking a deep breath, she straightened up and tried to hold the sword aloft, but it was suddenly so heavy that she took several damning steps backwards and ended up falling flat on her back again. “UGH!”

Phillip’s laugh filled the open room of the woodland castle. The fairies sat watching on the crumbling walls or from the surrounding trees echoed his laughter, giggling among themselves at the sight of their queen kicking at the air in utter frustration. Aurora had not intended to be a source of amusement that day. Rather, this was her fifth session with Phillip where he showed her how to use a sword and defend herself, but now he was being dreadfully sneaky about the whole thing.

“Real enemies will not go easy on you, Aurora. People will do anything it takes to survive a fight. They’ll cheat. They’ll kick you, try to surprise you. You need to stay on guard.” Still grinning, Phillip expertly twirled his own sword about, if only to show off a bit, much to the delight of onlooking fairies. He earned himself a few enthusiastic ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’, then sheathed his sword and went to help his wife to her feet.

Aurora refused his hand. Rolling awkwardly onto her front, she pushed herself up yet again, cringing at the sensation of sweat pooling at her lower back. 

The sword she carried was a beautiful thing. It was a new gift from King John and Phillip, forged in Ulstead, and since receiving it a few days ago she’d carried it around with her ever since solely for the purpose of admiring it. The pommel was a golden rose, marking an aspect of Aurora’s royal crest, and the shining hilt was adorned with pink and gold shagreen. It was not a large nor heavy weapon at all, but there and then, it felt as though it weighed as much as a full grown man.

More important than the weapon’s aesthetics, however, was the privilege of its protection.

Often, Aurora’s thoughts were turned to the time she’d felt the most helpless - and it did not concern the time she laid prone in a deep, enchanted sleep. No, she thought of the night of the Feth Fiadha, how unexpected and terrible it had been. That night, caught off guard and desperate to save her baby son, she’d faced Wynne the Moon Witch and certainly would have met her end if her father hadn’t charged into the temple. She remembered well the feeling of her numb feet, encased in ice. She remembered hearing her son screaming and being unable to do anything to console him. To  _ protect _ him. 

And she had been forced to watch her parents fight in her stead.

Well, Phillip could use a sword. So could King John, and she’d heard a rumour or two about Queen Mera’s own prowess with an axe. Maleficent had her magic, Diaval had his claws and teeth … What did Aurora have? Nothing but the mantle of the sleeping beauty, a heavy cloak that she longed to shed.

So, she would learn to fight. Even is she was still terrible at it, even if it made her body burn with exertion, she would keep learning until she could hold her own if ever the need arose.

She wanted to carry on sparring and wreak her vengeance, but knew full well that Phillip would flick the sword from her hands with ease in her current state. Instead, she sat down next to Riordan’s play pen and soon sprawled beside it. It was fine if it was of her  _ own _ volition.

Phillip disappeared, then soon returned with two wooden cups of cold water. 

“Does your mother know about the sword, yet?” He asked, sitting on the other side of the pen to pay attention to Riordan, who was playing happily with grass dolls the fairies made him. 

“Oh, no. I don’t know how she would react to it. I know why she might look down on it, but it’s easy for a powerful sorceress to do so.” Frowning, Aurora took several deep gulps of water and simply splashed the rest over her heated face, much to young Riordan’s amusement. The sound of his elated laughter brought a smile back to her face. “Was that funny? Was it? Phillip, you do it!”

Phillip sighed, and splashed himself in the face.

The sound of Riodan’s belly laughter was accompanied by the flapping of wings and the throaty cackles of a raven. Diaval landed on one of the nearby broken pillars and continued laughing in that hacking way of his. Delighted to see him, Aurora smiled and stretched out her arm, to which Diaval descended and landed upon with an affectionate nibble to her sleeve. 

“Hello, father,” the queen greeted brightly, running her fingers gently over the raven’s fluffy head. “It is good to see you. It’s been a little while! What have you and mother been up to?”

Diaval tilted his head thoughtfully at that, then made an odd little laughing sound once more. He side-stepped along her arm and took particular interest in the glinting sword lying nearby in the grass.

Oh.

Flushing, Aurora quickly grabbed the weapon with her free hand and held it protectively up to her chest.

Only then did Diaval hop down from her arm and move off a little way to transform. When the human figure of her father emerged from the shadowy magic, he folded his arms and regarded her with a frown. In turn, Aurora allowed a little defiance onto her face.

“Aurora, I’m not your mother’s spy anymore,” Diaval said gently, nodding towards the sword gripped in her hand. “I won’t tell her if you’d rather keep it a secret, but I think she would see the importance of it as things stand. I know it makes me feel better that you’re learnin’ to fight with it.”

It was foolish, perhaps. Aurora was the Queen of the Moors, which came with a certain level of authority. However, the thought of scaring her parents with human weapons truly hurt her, for they’d had their fair share pointed at them and used against them in their time. She was only human, though, and her options were extremely limited.

Relieved, she lowered the sword again, and her face became alight with affection.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “It does please me that you think so! And, um, it makes me feel better about the gift we have for you.”

“Oh!” Phillip exclaimed. “Yes! Diaval, it’s good you came by. I have something for you.”

Diaval, who’d been in the midst of trying to say something, fell silent and watched Phillip move to ruffle about in his bag. Despite the nature of the gift, Aurora felt a rising excitement as she maintained close concentration on his reaction, for she did so love the gift of giving! And it wasn’t as though people were lining up outside the Moors to pay homage to either of her parents, when the truth was that they deserved the world and more. 

When Phillip stood, he held in his hand a leather belt with a dark, ornate sheath that closely matched Aurora’s own brighter one. Similarly, the sheath held a finely crafted sword, though the hilt was instead of silver and the pommel was a raven’s head. The hilt was wrapped in velvety black. With a smile did Phillip stand before his father-in-law and present it, though was met with something of a confused expression rather than one of pleasant surprise.

“My father and I had this made for you, just as we had one made for Aurora,” Phillip explained after a moment’s silence, a creeping doubt in his voice, as though he wondered if Diaval even knew what a gift was. “I gave the smiths the design ideas. Ideally, it wouldn’t have been a sword, but … next time, hopefully it can be something more suited to you.”

Diaval stared down at the sword in apparent disbelief.

“I can’t take this!” He said abruptly, shaking his head. “Look at it! It has to be worth a fortune!”

“Well, you  _ are _ family. It’s for your protection, and Aurora tells me you know a bit about swinging one thanks to Prince Pioden, so … And, well, my father wanted to offer you a gesture of goodwill, too. He does worry, and cares a great deal.”

The meaning behind the words was apparent. There was a flicker of emotion in Diaval’s eyes. Slowly, he took the sword and unsheathed it to display its pristine, silver blade. Phillip continued:

“I’m sure it’s no replacement for strength and claws, but if ever … if ever that fails and you find yourself stuck, now you have something to fall back on. I assume it’ll just sort of appear and … reappear, like your clothes do. I have no idea how that works, but -“

“Me neither!” Diaval exclaimed. Gazing at the sword with rapture, he twirled it about a bit, then held it fast to his chest in a gesture of gratitude. “Phillip, this is really far too generous, you know. Dare I say it’s too fine for even a raven, which  _ is _ something like bird royalty. Of course, opinions on such a thing tend to depend on whether you’re a raven or not.” He shook his head. “That’s besides the point. This is a thoughtful gift from you and your father.” With that deep emotion still to be seen in his soulful eyes, the shapeshifter bowed. “Bein’ your family is a gift in itself.”

Aurora watched fondly as the two men embraced. When they parted, Phillip shuffled his feet slightly.

“Erm, we had something made for Maleficent, too, though it took most of a week to decide on something she might find useful. Will she be joining us this evening?”

“No, though she will be comin’ to Ulstead tomorrow. She’s off on the island tonight ‘cause there’s some trouble brewin’ up there.”

That caught Aurora’s attention. Immediately concerned, she tried to get up onto her feet, though was forced to demean herself by crawling over to the nearest pillar to pull herself back up onto shaking legs. Both her companions watched her with undue amusement, smirking to themselves.

“What …” she wheezed, trying to maintain something of a dignified pose. “What sort of trouble?”

“That’s partly why I came here, Aurora. Merin thinks that there is some kind of, uh … dark force arisin’. Otherworld magic. Now, I’m not sure what that means, exactly, but it’s no good. Your mother’s gone to investigate and will report back tomorrow if she can make sense of it.”

The queen considered that, surprised and rather more clueless than she would have liked. True, she reigned over the Moors and the fairies within it, but as she was likely incapable of using magic herself, there were many aspects of it that she did not understand. It concerned her a good deal that there was another kind of magic that even Maleficent, the greatest of fairies, did not understand herself.

“Go on,” she urged, seeing that Diaval had not finished.

“Well …” He anxiously moved a hand to his hip, and Aurora knew full well she was not going to like what came next. “I think I can help, actually. I have a proposition I’d like to offer for consideration at the meetin’ in Ulstead tomorrow. If you’ll allow me to come, of course. I really think it’ll be somethin’ useful to all of us and could even prevent the war.” He was growing in enthusiasm by then, smiling as he approached her.

Stunned, Aurora regarded him very closely. Was he well? What possible idea could end the prospect of such a disastrous war?

“Father …”

“I know you’re worried, diamond, and I gave you reason to be. I know that. I’m really feelin’ better than ever, though. It kills me to have to take a step back when I could be serving you! Not many people can say they have a true shapeshifter in their court, y’know. I really think that there is some sort of corruption about some of the fairy rings and I’m able to hop in and out of ‘em. I think this … this all goes deeper than it appears and I need to - we need to solve it before it leads to another disaster. I can’t help you do that if I’m there in that cave on my own.” Diaval shuddered a bit. “Frankly, the prospect of that might, er, scare me a bit. Not knowin’ where you are or what’s happenin’.”

The leather of the sword sheath creaked between his hands as he worriedly twisted at it.

Aurora’s concern turned to sympathy almost instantly. She understood well the importance of feeling wanted and needed herself. She also understood that Diaval was right: the more hands on deck, the better, and he came with a particularly rare skill set only a fool would squander. It wasn’t the first time she had seen that desperate sadness to his eyes, either … She recalled quite vividly the time he’d told her he would never admit his love to Maleficent, because he would never be as strong and fast as another faerie. He wasn’t of use.

And she recalled well all the times she had ever felt helpless. Useless, even, simply because of what she was or all the terrible things to have occurred in her past.

Maybe she was wrong to have kept him in the Moors. As far as she was concerned, he had long earned his place at the table. The war went above and beyond them all. However, it did pain her to consider reintroducing him back into the fold so soon, no matter how much control he might have had over his transformations.

For she had been there to see it at its worst, and so had hundreds of Ulsteads soldiers, who were fortunate enough not to suffer the claws of an enormous dragon, or the sure end that came with its burning breath. 

Fairies were welcome in Ulstead, for the most part. There was still the occasional naysayer who was suspicious of them, but the fairies had earned a long due trust and respect after the battle that saw Queen Ingrith off her genocidal throne. Everything else, though? The humans barely attempted to understand the fair folk as it was. Diaval was unfathomable to them, and there was a quiet but steadily rising sentiment regarding shapeshifters and demons in the city. There were many that thought they were just the same thing. John’s gesture of goodwill, the raven-headed sword, was an attempted reassurance that the royal family did not think in such a way.

Aurora wasn’t sure how to break the news. It had been playing on her mind for days. She knew Diaval would come to her and ask to help, for it was his way, and she so hated the thought of dashing the hope in his eyes by telling him that the humans did not welcome nor respect him in the way fairies did.

Over Diaval’s shoulder, Phillip gazed at her, evidently feeling that very same remorse. 

Even Riordan sensed the shift in mood. The infant balanced precariously on his legs and looked between all the adults, sniffling a bit and extending his arms out. Diaval was the first to spot the silent cry for attention, and picked the young prince up out of the play pen to bounce him playfully against his chest.

“Aurora?” He pressed, laughing slightly out of nerves. “Has somethin’ happened?” He looked back to Riordan and began to pull funny faces, crossing his eyes and blowing a soft raspberry to cheer him up - and perhaps to encourage another, more lighthearted shift in all of them. “Bfffththh! No more frowns, little one! Shall we do one together to help your sweet mam feel better? One, two … bfftthhht! Oh, alright, you just keep laughing and I’ll do all the work! One, two -“

“Father,” Aurora interrupted, though it wounded her to do so. 

Diaval silenced at once. He frowned, and it was like a scar across his face. A rigid tale of truest concern and deepest fear. Even the fairies sat watching around the broken walls and the trees ceased chattering among themselves to listen, a rising sorrow in their little faces.

Aurora gently approached him, reaching forth to briefly cup his cheek.

“You are so kind,” she began, trying not to let the pain in her heart sound in her voice. “You are wise and brilliant, but … there are some in Ulstead who think you are still the wickedness they heard of in stories. That your relationships with us are a pretence, of sorts.”

“Why would I pretend?” Diaval responded, a saddened crease to his brow. “I don’t even think I could, actually.”

“I know. Some believe your aim is to infiltrate the governing families of all the united kingdoms and sow discord where once was peace. I’m not sure your presence in Ulstead is, um … a wise decision at this time, as much I want to give you the opportunity to speak your ideas.”

Diaval did not seem surprised by anything she said. Somehow, that just made it all worse.

“Do you worry for the reputation of the Moors?” He asked her plainly. He turned and handed Riordan over to Phillip, who quietly moved a small way away to lend them some space.

“I - I worry for  _ you. _ ”

“You should worry for the Moors. The kingdom must come before me, Aurora. Every time. We can’t lose this relationship we have with Ulstead just because of a twisted tale. If you believe my presence will cause tension, then I’ll stay here where they can put me out of their minds.” With a reassuring smile, he put his hand on her arm and gave it an affectionate little rub. “I’ll write everythin’ down for you so you can present it to the table, if you’d like. You don’t even have to say it was my idea.”

“But it  _ is _ your idea!” Aurora insisted, feeling a rising mixture of genuine sadness and anger at the prospect of expelling one of the best minds she had out of the equation entirely.

“Doesn’t matter whose idea it is, does it? Well, except for when it’s a potential demon tryin’ to pull the strings, right? So long as they listen. So long as it works if they go ahead with it. That’s what really matters, in the end. Savin’ the kingdoms from all the death that’ll come with more fighting.”

He was right. As always. The truth was harsh, and Aurora bristled at the absolute wretched injustice of it all. How was it fair that there were men like Edmund Hill in seats of power at Perceforest, free to gloat and lie and divulge in all the greed that he could, while Diaval suffered a lack of titles and recognition for everything he had done? How was it fair that Queen Orlaith fed her people with grandiose lies and hatred while Aurora’s own family still sought to aid humanity, despite all the contempt they were shown?

That sword did not belong there in Diaval’s hand no more than Aurora’s own belonged in hers. And yet, they wielded them, giving up their innately peaceful natures for the sake of self-defence and necessity.

There was a silence as the weight of it all set in. Phillip tentatively approached again, looking between them with some curiosity.

“What’s your idea, Diaval?” He asked, the brightness of his tone somewhat out of place.

“Oh.” Diaval refocused at once. “Yes. Well, it might sound a bit preposterous at first, and I know there will be many that’ll hate it, but … Do you remember I mentioned a fairy ring in Breoslaigh? It was this great circle of stones around this dark, creepy mire. When I went inside, it was like …” He paused, rubbing at his temple. “It was almost like a memory. The Morrigan, she said … what did she say? Somethin’ like, as long as the ring stays open, the meadows will be barren and run with the blood of saints.”

“She told you that?” Aurora asked, amazed.

“Well, I think she thought I was someone else, y’know. Must have one of those faces, though she did have three pairs of eyes, so you’d think she’d know the difference.“

“So we destroy the ring!” the queen spoke wonderingly, trying to piece the information together.

“We end their drought,” Phillip surmised. “Do you propose we can help them this way?”

“Yes! The gods were causin’ trouble for whatever reason, but we can put an end to the curse by closing the ring. If we give ‘em back their fertile land and crops, they wouldn’t want to fight with us, right?” Diaval looked between them with a degree of excitement. “They relinquish the flame. No more Feth Fiadha. We move into the future together.”

“Diaval, forgive me, but I know nothing of … fairy rings and such. You truly met the Morrigan face to face? I think I might have seen her from a distance during the invasion.”

“Like I said, she thought I was someone else. Someone from the past, I think, long ago. She was doing ‘em a favour or somethin’ like that. Wipin’ Eastwend off the face of the earth with a dragon, startin’ droughts elsewhere …”

At that, Phillip’s eyes widened. Aurora remained in a state of confusion. Staring expectantly, she nudged him in encouragement to speak his thoughts. 

“Oh, that’s … yes, I remember hearing about Eastwend. Those poor people. It was centuries ago that happened.”

“What?” Aurora pressed, feeling somewhat agitated in her state of cluelessness. “Eastwend?”

“It was Breoslaigh’s twin kingdom. They emerged together in the east. They were an advanced and ambitious civilisation, so it was told. Breoslaigh’s sigil was the flaming torch, while Eastwend’s was the water chalice. Properly balanced, until Eastwend was destroyed by a rampaging dragon.” Phillip pinched at the bridge of his nose a moment, thinking deeply. “That the  _ gods _ were behind such a disaster … What on earth did Eastwend do to deserve it?”

Diaval shook his head. “No idea. What did Ulstead do to deserve the Feth Fiadha? It feels as though some of these silent deities aren’t exactly on our side. We can help Breoslaigh, though, if the united kingdoms are willin’ to make such a call.”

Aurora considered everything that she heard. The more mysterious elements of it, she had to ignore for now, for it had no bearing on the decision she and the other leaders would have to make. She found it to be a promising idea, if extremely risky; she much preferred the thought of helping these people as opposed to fighting them, when from what she had heard, they were in dire need of aid. If Queen Orlaith was too morally corrupt to simply ask for help as opposed to initiate a war, it was hardly the fault of her people.

Freshly determined, she nodded once, gazing thoughtfully at her father.

“You were right,” she admitted. “You saw it all for yourself, the way Breoslaigh suffers. You saw the fairy ring and you saw their queen. If they go through with the idea and it works, it could do wonders for your reputation, too. You  _ should  _ be the one to convince the others. Will you do it, father?”

Sincerely surprised by that, Diaval glanced down at the shining sword in his hand with a degree of hope. 

“Yes, diamond. I’ll go to Ulstead, but maybe it’s better if I fly in so that the people don’t see me. Even if I  _ am _ a protected species.” 

“Alright. That’ll work!” Aurora smiled again, bouncing a little bit in her enthusiasm. “Oh, I think it’s a wonderful idea! And I know John will consider it! Father, if you can’t come with me as my envoy, then might you come with me as something else? I think it’ll be a good look if you wear a new title as a symbol of our trust. John has a Lord Chancellor that advises him and takes a position of authority in many matters. Will you be mine?”

Diaval looked like he might choke at any moment. Both Aurora and Phillip beamed at him, patiently awaiting some sort of response, which for a while did not seem forthcoming. Poor Diaval was at a loss for words, at first paling, then flushing, then paling again.

“I …” he croaked, brandishing his sheathed sword in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting that! Aurora, you know I’m happy to help you without any sort of - That’s a really high up position in court, you know!”

“I know,” the queen assured him. “The highest, aside from Riordan and I. It puts you on equal footing with mother. I know now that hiding you away isn’t going to help you, father, but allowing you to continue serving the Moors will. We  _ will _ dismantle these awful rumours about you.”

Diaval welled up, which immediately caused her to well up in turn. What a pair they were.

Coming together, they tightly embraced, much to the delight of the watching fairies.

“Thank you, Aurora,” her father rasped gently near Aurora’s ear. “I won’t let you down again. I swear it.”

“You never did,” she murmured, her voice strained with emotion. 

They pulled away, though Diaval held her face just a little longer, smiling crookedly.

“I’ll do anythin’ for you, Aurora. I’m so proud to be your father. And now your Lord Chancellor! Do you hear that, fair folk?” Releasing her, he turned to regard the myriad of different fairies observing the scene, dramatically flourishing his hand in a very royal and elegant gesture. “‘Tis I, your lord raven! I will accept tribute in the form of warm mice and shiny things!”

What he received instead was a rotting conker which landed right in the middle of his forehead. 

“Ow! The immediate disrespect!”

“Most chancellors wait more than five seconds before abusing their power!” said Phillip, raising his voice to be heard over the raucous laughter that filled the ruins courtesy of the many fairies. “Diaval, why don’t you name your sword to mark the occasion? All good swords deserve a name.”

Rubbing his head, the shapeshifter turned to them again, looking down at the weapon thoughtfully. Slowly, he drew it and watched the shining blade glint blindingly in the sunlight.

“Did you name yours, Aurora?”

“Oh, yes!” The young queen felt herself blush a little and glanced away. “I named it after Maeve, the warrior queen of Connacht. I loved those stories my aunties told when I was a girl.”

Diaval’s smile softened a bit at that.

“A noble choice, to be sure. Then I think I will name this one, er …” 

Tilting the sword, he flipped it until the silver raven at the pommel was gazing right back at him.

“ _ Éan Sonas _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of Diaval’s sword means ‘bird of happiness’ in Irish Gaelic, which would really translate to it being ‘bird of good omen’, as though to shed the traditional view of ravens being omens of death. (While it implies the weapon will only be used in a fight for peace, it creates a sort of opposition with the white raven, who is in the truest sense a bad omen. More on that later!)


	7. All is Not What it Seems

Maleficent felt it as soon as she descended.

The isle was changed, though in no visible sense aside from it being emptier. Most of the fae had long left to rediscover their lives off in the wide world now that there was far less opposition, though some, mostly the eldest of them, remained to safeguard the sacred place. The hatching place of the Phoenix, and subsequent birthplace of the Dark Fae, born of a great bird spirit and her púca consorts. 

A great bird spirit that had been banished from the Otherworld in the gods’ supposed fear of her. Maleficent considered that tale as she flew over the sea channel separating the isle from the mainland, wondering how much of it was truth and how much had been distorted by the practise of weaving mythology. How difficult was it going to be to renew an ancient, dormant grip on the subject of Otherworld magic?

What she sensed when she descended was a slight feeling of dread. Truly, it felt as though there were eyes watching her from every crevice within the caves of the great nest. When she soared over the towering cliffs and mesas, it was like the very island was observing her every move from within the shadows of the trees, the crags of the desert below. It was a lonelier place, now, but even so … there was such a morbid air about it that was wrong. It was meant to be an ancestral home and a sacred shrine to the ancestors of the Dark Fae and birds of all kinds. Not this silent phantom that sat alone amidst a darkened sea.

It was evening when she landed upon the oldest of the woodlands, the forest that was most sacred to her own clan, the forest fae. It was Merin’s usual haunt when she wasn’t busy with matters of leadership. Maleficent did somewhat regret the grief she had given the elder; it can’t have been easy to lead disheartened fae following Conall’s death, especially now that this curious  _ presence _ , for lack of a better word, was haunting the very heart of their people. 

As she moved through the trees, she tried to pay no attention to the movements over her head within the dark crown of the forest. The resident unkindness, the ravens that served as sentinels and general nuisances, watched her with an unnerving silence. There was the occasional snap of a beak or slap of a wing to serve as warning, but they did not get close to her. Were they amicable, or were they frightened? She almost missed their tendency to ceaselessly show off within her sights.

It was early evening, which given the Winter meant that it was already dark. No stars shone from behind low-lying clouds. She could not even see the Moon, forced to rely on her own sight through the shadows of the ancient woods. It was not as familiar as her own home and her heart was set on edge, so she gripped her staff tightly and kept her wits about her.

Thankfully, she soon drew upon the circular clearing that housed the old ring of statues and protruding stones. There was nobody present. The place felt all the lonelier now that most of the forest fae were on the mainland, and the others had all taken their treasures of great power with them. Thus, the pedestals the statues held were now empty, save for the raven, who still carried the broken remnants of the Phoenix Emerald.

Disturbed, Maleficent reluctantly approached. The strange, dire feeling in her chest felt worse and worse the closer she got to the circle. It had always felt … strange, admittedly, but never like this. The worn eyes of the statues felt to be the source of the cold sensation of being watched when she looked at them. Their blank, lifeless stares were almost accusing in nature, nearly shrouded by the shadows of trees. Maleficent felt a chill, and she shivered.

The place was the death site of a spirit’s physical form. There was no wonder it felt cursed, but to this extent? Why was such a feeling suddenly inching its way across the entire island towards the Moors?

She had to understand.

Moving into the very middle of the circle, Maleficent slowly returned to regard each of the statues one by one.

Mysteries. All of them. The near forgotten fathers of the Dark Fae, mysteriously absent from the lands they once protected. Mori’ka was surely the only púca that she had ever laid eyes on. Perhaps Diaval by extension, too, though he did not function as a true spirit did and rather carried one aspect of a púca’s power. Mori’ka had disappeared into nothingness to go … where? To the Otherworld? To find his final resting place, as he’d said? Were the rest of his kin there, too?

Whatever the case might have been, the statues were not giving her answers. Not yet, at least. 

She thought about kneeling - then decided that the spirits would have to earn her respect after being gone for so long. So, she remained stood and continued to survey all four of them. The owl to the north, the macaw to the east, the vulture to south, and the raven to the west. Ever as silent as the night. As silent as the ring itself, which hid its secrets well.

“What do you know about all this?” She spoke aloud, and felt somewhat foolish in doing so. More than that, she became frustrated when nothing happened to indicate any sort of answer. “I demand your aid, spirits. Your people require your wisdom and your guidance. Where have you been all these years? Where are you?”

The curious statues remained as silent as graves.

She knew they could do something. She’d seen the eyes of the stone raven glow with white light before now, when Mori’ka’s soul was freed from the confines of the emerald. Vexed by the lack of response, she stormed over to the raven and gazed down at the two broken pieces of the stone, now a dull green in colour. To see it again brought the same dullness within herself as she remembered all the trouble it had caused, all the atrocities it committed within the Moon Witch’s grasp.

From what she’d gathered, Otherworld magic was much like her own: a force of both darkness and light. Life and death. Only, it seemed that it was more chaotic in it agency, unrefined and wild, nothing inherently good or bad about it. Perhaps it would not help her to turn away from the pain and beginnings of fear that she felt, standing alone there in the stone ring. It would not help her to fear the silence and the waving shadows. Maybe it was all part of the magic that she sought to understand.

So, she closed her eyes and focused on the dire feelings emanating from beneath her feet and from within her own heart. She listened to the silence, even if it frightened her. She took that fear and tried to understand it. There had to be someone, somewhere, in the vast unknown of realms beyond this one, that could answer her questions. Someone that could help them defeat the very evil pulsing steadily out of the very ring in which she stood.

The cold intensified. With another shiver, she held her hand out over the two broken halves of the Phoenix Emerald and then reluctantly took them into her palm.

Nothing. 

No voices in the wind. No sudden appearances of spirit-beings.

Angered, Maleficent dropped the pieces of stone back onto the pedestal and took a step back, opening her eyes.

But the world was changed.

She gasped quietly, frozen in shock. 

Had it … worked? There was nothing to indicate that what she saw was the Otherworld, for it seemed much the same as the place she was previously standing. However … the ring of stone and statues were gone. The emerald, all of it. It had all simply vanished into thin air, which was colder now than before.

The trees of the forest were sparser. Younger. The sky was painted with twilight, golden with blood-like streaks of crimson spreading from the dark depths of the horizon. The place was without a doubt the ancestral forest and not the Otherworld, but it was so markedly different that there was clearly a magical influence behind the sudden changes occurring.

Something was answering her! She might have felt proud of herself, relieved, and curious all at once, but strangely, she did not feel any of those things. Oddly, she did not feel happy at all. 

A series of new emotions suddenly stabbed into her very soul like jagged blades.

They sought to tear her apart. Barely able to cry out with the agony of it, Maleficent wrapped her arms protectively about herself. She wanted to cry and scream with the cruel tidal waves of terror and dread that emerged out of nowhere. She felt  _ betrayed _ , as though her wings had been stolen from her while she was vulnerable, and all those terrible, heart rending feelings came back to the very forefront of her mind from the small, dark cell in which they had been bound.

Her staff was gone. She stumbled forwards, using her wings to balance herself as she made her way through the tall grass. Where was she going? She had no idea. Lost in the terrible cold with nothing but these emotions that were hers and yet  _ not _ hers, she made for the largest thing she could see among the trees. There must have been someone there who could help!

It was a nest. The largest that Maleficent had ever seen in her life. The giant cradle of intricately woven branches and enormous, dark feathers sat there on the ground within a protective shell of trees. Desperately peering over the edge, she saw a clutch of beautiful, healthy eggs lying within. Though she was strangely happy and relieved to see them, the sight also tore at her for reasons she could not at all understand. Who was showing her this?

Why?

She knew this nest. She knew those eggs. They were close to her, as if she had birthed them herself. She loved them with everything she had, and that feeling welled up within her so strongly that her eyes began to flow with tears. They were safe. They were  _ safe. _

But then that cold fear arose again. She felt sick with it. Feeling the eyes of the forest upon her, she straightened up, sensing that she was not alone. When something compelled her to turn, she did so, and found that those thousands of invisible eyes and ears had taken shape, all those shadows of the trees and the songs of the crying ravens took form before her very eyes.

The man was daunting in his unusual height. He was no man of mortal kind, that much was clear, for his skin was the very grey of death and his eyes were the formidable amber of a beast. Raven? Wolf? Dragon? Maleficent was too struck with horror to come to terms with it as she watched him move closer. His long, black hair was adorned with a crown of antler - he must have been important, but who was he?

Why did she know him? Why did it fill her with such rampant devastation to see him? Why did it fill her with such a terrible  _ love _ ? 

“Come no closer,” she heard herself demand, somehow firm despite the agony caused by the being’s manifestation. 

The man stopped at once. He stared at her with those unnatural, beautiful eyes, but they were wide and unfocused, wearing the look of one who had seen something horrific. His pale hands were shaking, and he quickly clenched them and hid them in the long sleeves of his black robe, but it was too late. She had already seen the blood splattered across his fingers. 

“What have you done?” Maleficent asked, unbidden. It was not her own voice that she heard, now. It was higher, perhaps. Far too shaken for her liking, though it was permissible given the utter fear and revulsion that she felt now, somehow alongside the love that became colder and colder within her. How could she feel so many things and yet feel so cavernous, so empty all at once?

The man was unfocused. Sweat beaded on his brow. He blinked, wavered a bit, then looked between her and the nest several times, a rising desperation evident in his handsome features.

“I will save them,” he said in a rasp. It was unnatural just how strangely calm he sounded, but his pain was clear for her to see. “I will protect them. It will not all be for nothing, I swear it.”

“What have you  _ done? _ ” Maleficent cried out, fighting the urge to beat the man into the ground.

“I …” The creature swallowed thickly, eyes dancing nervously about. “I did what I had to. The humans … they are scared of us. There was talk of them launching an attack on the Moors. They are not like us, my love. They are truly evil, wicked … nefarious little things. I drowned the royal family of that wretched kingdom in their own baths for what they have done. The soldiers attacked me, but I … I escaped! Are you not happy to see me?”

She was. He elevated her to the very highest peaks of joy while simultaneously dragging her behind him through the mud by the wings. She  _ knew _ that, now, after years of ignoring the worse, darker traits that fear seemed to bring out in him, but it was not as simple as it should have been to let go. Gods, she loved him. He was the moon and the stars, the clockwork that kept their joyous life in the woods ticking, ticking … 

But the pendulum was still, now. And it always would be.

“The humans can be taught,” Maleficent whispered furiously, tears still spilling freely down her cheeks. “You cannot.  _ You _ are the evil of which you speak, you fiend. You have murdered countless humans today, and their blood shall forever stain your hands and your heart.”

The man looked as though he might cry. His lip shook with emotion, as did the rest of him, quivering beneath his ornate robes. 

“I will do it again,” he said, still in that unnervingly monotone, calm voice. “I’ll destroy them all if it means our children will live free in a world without them. We will all live a peaceful life here in these woods. We move into the future together.”

Maleficent just shook her head, and she wept.

In the distance, shouting could be heard just above the melancholic moans of the wind. Her blood ran cold. Before her, the creature looked wildly panicked at the sound of nearby humans, jumping a bit and looking about him with fear.

“We must protect our eggs,” he continued, a spark of true emotion to be heard, then. “Help me fight them. Please.  _ Please _ . I am not as strong as you are! One of the wizards from the Moors must have sent them through a ring. They are here already.” When Maleficent made no movements, the man seethed, those tears of his leaving glittering trails down his cheeks. “We bested the odds, my love. We made these eggs together. Will you not help me now? Does this love of ours mean nothing to you?”

_ I love you more than you could possibly know _ .

Maleficent did not move. Only when the mysterious man lunged forwards to seize her arm in a sudden and vicious manner did she act, slapping him so hard across the face that he was thrown down into the soil. Her hand stung with the force of it. Frozen, she held her breath and watched the creature slowly come to his senses. Black blood spilled out from between his pale lips. 

“I will protect my eggs,” she swore quietly. “I will protect everything that you almost destroyed. But it seems I cannot do anything to mend that which is broken beyond repair. I will not try for you. Go and see if the gods of fate smile kindly upon you tonight, Mori’ka.”

The man - the  _ spirit _ \- glared up at her from the dirt, but he could do nothing to pay her back in kind. She was the Phoenix and could not ever be bested by the likes of him, even if the hatred she felt for him tore through her like the claws of a wild beast, even if her love continued to burn as brightly as it did the day they had first danced together in a kingdom to the north.

She yearned for his hand. She yearned for his defeat. Only one could win, and she knew which was right, even if it killed her to let him stand up and scramble back into the clearing beyond. Mori’ka loved his children so dearly, even if they had not yet hatched, and it seemed he would fight for them until the end, his loyalty to his family unwavering.

He turned to look at her through the gaps in the trees once more. He cut a beautiful figure there in the twilight. It took him years to settle on a man-shape that he liked, though he only really chose it because  _ she  _ liked it. In turn, she sometimes adopted a more humanoid form of her own so that they might enjoy their nights together in the way that humans did. Soft, warm, and entirely loving, her lover’s eyes alight with a pure and innocent adoration.

Such things could not last. The way he looked at her now was not innocent. It was dark and mired with hateful vengeance, a pain slowly born across years of unending uncertainty and fear. Once their eggs were laid, a dangerous obsession had claimed him entirely.

A newer world. A purer world, where only creatures like them could walk. They could never be scared in a world like that, and their children would be safe from the likes of mankind.

It was the last time she would see his eyes filled with life.

Crying out, she reached for him when he turned his back to her. The humans were already there on the other side of the clearing. They carried terrifying weapons in their hands, sharp blades and bows and burning torches. Blue paint adorned their faces and chests in swirls. On their crude tabards, they bore the symbol of a white chalice.

The Phoenix cast a golden spell of protection around the nest. Through the spell and through the trees, she watched her beloved mate begin to run towards the humans. He transformed, shadows clawing over his form and a powerful, dark wind swirling about the clearing, until a great, black wyvern took his place and reared up on its hind legs.

Arrows pelted him. The Phoenix wept.

There were too many of them. Their arrows buried into the softness of his throat, and burning blood bubbled choked him. Their swords cut into his legs and his wings. The damned creature fell and was overwhelmed by the small army of yelling humans, and the Phoenix watched in torment as they climbed all over him, their weapons burying into him again and again. His blood was shed far and wide, into the trees, into the grass, into the very soil.

His one weak wail was a cry for help, but nobody came to help him as that final, fatal blow was struck, straight through his heart.

She screamed. Her unearthly and powerful cry of absolute despair filled the island, even the very sky itself, and threatened to tear both asunder with the strength of her grief. At the very sound of it, the humans disappeared back into the trees as quickly as they had arrived, leaving the tragic remnants of their vengeance behind them. She might have destroyed them, but the Phoenix was no enemy of man.

Mori’ka was that, and he paid the price.

Stumbling forth, she entered the clearing in a daze and beheld the pools of dark blood sinking into the earth and the trees. Her mate lost his dragon-shape in death and resumed the truest nature of his existence: that of a raven, one once blessed with enormous power by the gods of Tech Duinn. 

Dropping to her knees, she held the raven in her arms and screamed towards the heavens. To the Otherworld. To whoever was listening.

His soul - his once brilliant, beautiful soul - was departing. She could sense it as easily as one might feel the caress of a breeze. If allowed to venture to the Otherworld without consequence, the spirit would surely recover over a span of many, many years, for it was true that a spirit could not be truly killed by mere steel alone. 

But he could not be allowed to return. That was why the Phoenix grieved so, stricken by the prospect of what she must do. She would remove his corrupted soul from the world, make it so he could never harm another human again. 

With a shaking hand, she took the emerald pendant from around her neck - a gift from her prime consort himself - and removed it from its golden bearings. Weeping tears of unbridled grief, she held the stone out over the body of the raven and used her magic to absorb the barely-there spark of his soul into it. It tormented her to do it, and it was a heartbreak from which she knew she could never fully recover.

He would never know his children. He would never look upon her with that sweet, innocent smile ever again.

He was gone.  _ Gone.  _

The forest was darkened by the green magic of the Phoenix. Such an agony would never truly lift from the place.

After that, she could not truly piece together anything that was happening. Sometimes she was brooding over her eggs, other times she was running about the forest in search of something that was never going to come back to her. She took to her mates and encouraged them to breed so that she might lay yet more eggs and have something of all of them with her forever, for she loved them dearly.

But she feared them, now.

She saw herself wrenching a piece of round amber from an ancient tree. With it in claw, she flew north and trapped the soul of the snowy owl púca inside it.

_ Owl’s Eye. _

Returning to the island, she found an ornate dagger left behind by one of the soldiers. With it in claw, she flew east and trapped the soul of the macaw.

_ Spine. _

In the jungle, she found a human skull buried in the dirt. With it in claw, she flew south and trapped the soul of the vulture.

_ Death Rattle. _

The Phoenix would endure. She loved her children more than life, and she would fight for them no matter what. Always. She could not risk their fathers becoming the same, hateful creatures that Mori’ka was, for the sake of the world and humanity. For  _ her _ sake, for she would never endure such a loss again.

Only such a thing as true love, a powerful force of its own, could break the spell. But true love was so devastatingly rare that the Phoenix wondered whether it even truly existed at all. And so Mori’ka and the shapeshifting spirits would remain bound for an eternity, there for her to look at and reminisce when she needed it.

It comforted her, for a while.

It did not comfort Maleficent. 

* * *

Diaval dreamed that night.

It was strange. His dreams were usually recurring in nature. Usually it was that he saw the mysterious, winding black passages of Tech Duinn and the towering spire outside of the black veil. Sometimes he saw things that he did not recognise or understand, but they repeated themselves regardless. Such was the nature of dreams.

Sometimes, he saw Wynne. This was one of those times, but it was different in a way that he’d never seen. She was not laughing and waving her staff to painfully transform him into all sorts of monstrous animals. She was not smiling that lascivious smile of hers, nor trying to seduce him. She was not making him weak with fear, nor pinning him to the ground, nor tearing at him with her claws.

In fact, she was not acknowledging his presence at all. It was a sunny, warm day in the forest of ancestry, and the faerie was stood within the stone ring therein. She was … smaller. Much smaller. A child. Her horns had already grown into deformity, and her wings were bedraggled with lack of upkeep. Where was her family?

The girl was facing the stone raven. Stood perfectly still, she stared into the glowing, green stone sat upon the pedestal. She stared, and stared, and stared, unblinking.

In the trees all around, ravens watched silently from their perches.

The scene faded, but it was followed witch a sudden and intense feeling of sheer sadness that gripped him while he slept. It felt as though his heart was broken for reasons he could not ascertain. Such an ancient feeling of wretched betrayal and sorrow it was that he curled up and cried out, holding himself tightly, but there was nobody there who could alleviate the pain. Nobody who wanted to. Maybe they really did deserve everything that -

“Father?”

His eyes snapped open. Those awful emotions drained away so suddenly that it left a hollow, sickening feeling in his gut. With a gasp, he tried to unclasp his hands from his own arms, but found himself temporarily frozen in wake of the strange, new dream and all the terrible feelings that seemed to have drifted in from the most secret corners of the world. Much to his dismay, he felt the moisture and stickiness of tears on his cheeks, and his back shuddered with the remnants of inexplicable devastation.

A lantern was placed down by his head. The bright warmth of it helped clear his thoughts further and begin to restore the ability to process reality. Blinking mysterious, stray tears out of his eyes, he grunted as somebody gently pulled him up against the nearest tree.

That’s right … he was a raven when he’d fallen asleep up there in the branches. Now he was human again, and somewhat sore from the tumble he’d taken in the depths of the night. He hoped Aurora merely thought that he’d decided to sleep there in the undergrowth, but from the way she looked at him, there was no chance of it.

It took a moment, but he managed to unclench his hands and quickly wipe the errant tears away so that he could see her more clearly. She was knelt down at his side, wearing a look of such concern that it hurt to be the cause of it. At once, the queen moved into him and hugged him tightly, resting her golden head down on his shoulder.

Diaval gazed into the darkness between the trees. It almost felt as though if he dared venture into the shadows, he would find something there staring right back at him.

Slowly, his arms moved to hold his daughter closely to him. There was a long silence, touched only by the light fluttering of pale moths about Aurora’s head and the lantern, and the occasional whisper of a fairy up in the trees. It was far into the depths of night, but he could not see the moon or the stars and could not gauge just how late it was. 

“Aurora?” He said quietly, gently rubbing at her back. “Are you alright?”

Slowly, the queen raised her head to look at him.

“I heard you. I thought something had …” she trailed off, glancing down. 

Diaval followed her gaze into the grass and saw her sword, Maeve, gleaming in the lantern light.

“I’m fine,” he quickly tried to reassure her. “It was just dreams, that’s all. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not. Not anymore. See?” Diaval smiled and used his sleeve to quickly dab at his thankfully dry eyes. “Nothin’. I don’t even know what that was all about. Strange how dreams work, isn’t it?”

Aurora did not look convinced. With a sigh, she dropped her head back down onto his shoulder and held him close, curling up to his side. 

They stayed that way for some time. Becoming more and more uncomfortable with the oddness of the dream and the unconscious transformation, Diaval held Aurora close as she drifted into sleep. He made sure to stay awake. He would protect her from the things that waited beyond. The things that he could feel but could not see or hear.

He would protect her, no matter what.

* * *

Maleficent slowly opened her eyes. 

It was daytime. The light of the sun was too painful to bear at first, so she curled an arm over her face. Grass crackled underneath her as she reluctantly shifted.

She was stiff from the cold. Moaning quietly from the soreness of her entire body, she quickly ran magic down through her limbs to warm them up and to banish the frost coating her dress and cloak. And then panic, hot and sharp, panged in her heart. Gasping, she forced herself up and placed her hands on her lower belly, tears welling up in her eyes as she eased magic within to sense the gentle flickers of her dear little ones.

They were fine. The faerie cried out with relief, holding her arms around herself and bowing as tears fell.

She wept for what felt like hours, though it was only as that time gradually passed that she began to understand just why she felt so dreadful. She felt the lingering effects of … a vision, or whatever it might have been, reliving through her own eyes a dark and terrifying part of her ancestry. The heartbreak of betrayal and grief was still fresh, and it took her some time to focus past it.

The faerie eventually forced herself to calm. She had to get it together. Something had shown her that for a reason, and it wouldn’t do to continue sitting there hurting about it. She knew the dreadful truth, now, and it would be her responsibility to shed light on it so that all Dark Fae would understand their shared history and the tragedy that had been kept secret for so long.

Mori’ka … was a monster.

And Maleficent had unwittingly freed him to save Diaval’s life.

The implications of that were terrifying. She’d  _ met  _ the creature, and she still struggled to fathom the terrible things that he’d done, for he had seemed so kind and intent on moving on away from the past. Wasn’t that what he’d said? He would retreat, he would … let the past be just that. 

He would let go of anything that might have stopped him before.

The spirit was using what was left of his power to do wicked things. He was a demon. His was the darkness entering and haunting the Moors! But what were his intentions? Did he seek to hurt her for what her ancestor had done? It didn’t seem  _ right _ . He had been so gentle. Fatherly, in the brief time she’d met him. That time he’d given a blessing unto them and given his gift of shapeshifting to Diaval.

_ Diaval.  _

Oh, the poor creature. If there was any wonder why part of him had felt changed … why his sleep was fitful and his power so chaotic and draining, well … It was all becoming clear to Maleficent.

It was no blessing, a vulnerable soul being wrenched from the Otherworld and tainted by a demonic seed thrust into his very essence. Mori’ka had no true care for him. He just wanted to use him.

But why? What were the demon’s plans? 

Her heart became steeped in fear. Slowly, she rose to her feet and looked at all of the stone statues around her one more time, feeling mostly sympathy for their plight. The fathers of the Dark Fae, despite being assumedly innocent of anything, had lost their bodies and were trapped thanks to the Phoenix’s paranoia. It did not sit right with Maleficent. Turning back to the statue of the raven, she glared accusingly at it and the broken Phoenix Emerald it held aloft.

She couldn't help but suspect that everything that had happened was all by design. He’d been trapped in that stone for thousands of years, festering in revenge and resentment and sorrow. He must have become powerful enough to let a little of his consciousness reach out to those he’d needed to execute his plan.  _ He _ was the shadowy figure Diaval had seen in Wickpon. The phantom that followed him around, making sure everything was going to plan. Testing him. Nearly killing him, so that Maleficent would see the truth of her love. That it  _ was _ true love, the only force that could possibly free Mori’ka from his chains.

And so she’d saved her mate’s life and given them both a chance to become parents again. It had, however, come at a cost.

Merin tried to warn her.

Where  _ was _ Merin? 

The silence of the forest was disconcerting. Maleficent stepped out of the ring and peered up at the sky. It must have been the afternoon given the placement of the Sun. Had she really been lying there all that time, and Merin hadn’t yet spotted her? Concerned by that, Maleficent headed through the grass towards the forest, but something stopped her before she could disappear into its depths.

The white raven.

She had not spotted it until then. It was sat among the other ravens in the trees, staring at her in silence, just as they did. There was no denying its nature, however, for its pale feathers glowed with a supernatural light up there in the darkness, and its eyes were as red as garnets. It opened its beak and made an insistent, ghastly sound, then spread its wings and circled about Maleficent’s head.

She watched the spectre with fear, raising her staff threateningly. The raven did not seem to take notice of her apparent anger. Instead, it surprised her by landing straight on her extended arm, where it side-stepped up to her elbow and watched her, turning its head this way and that to alternate just which dreadful eye would look at her.

“What are you?” She asked of it, frozen in place. 

The creature considered her, then bowed its head a few times and hunched its wings.

“ _ Awakawaka, _ ” it said, and then flew off.

Maleficent felt the blood drain from her face. 

With her staff gripped tightly, she followed the raven, for it did seem intent on leading her somewhere through the forest. It would land on a branch every so often to ensure that she was still following. When they reached the edge of the mesa, Maleficent took flight and flew across the desert floor below, past the endless crags of sheer cliffs, all the way to a small pebble beach behind a wall of dead brambles.

She landed there, and the air tasted of salt and blood.

The white raven perched on a jagged rock nearby and croaked at her. There was something on the other side of it, without a doubt. Maleficent felt her blood turn to ice in her veins and her eyes filled with hot tears. Her breath coming in short, shuddered gasps, she moved slowly to the other side of the rock and gazed down upon the body stretched across the bloodied pebbles.

With a shaky snap of her fingers, she destroyed the spectre of the white raven.

But it would come back. It always did.


	8. Little Black Death

Diaval stared down at the large map spread across the table.

In turn, everybody seated around it stared at him.

There were more people there than usual, that day. There were the usual attendants - John, Phillip, Aurora, and Percival, but now there were more strangers squashed in to listen to the discussion. Lord and ladies of John’s court who Diaval could put no names too. Whatever the case, they were clearly important enough to be there, though they looked at him much the same way as most humans did.

With a quiet dislike. 

The guards were the worst. It was more than obvious they no more wanted him in their kingdom than they wanted the plague. They would watch him, constantly, which he supposed was fair enough, considering he had probably almost squashed or burned alive a number of them during his unfortunate stint as a dragon. Still, it made him highly uncomfortable, to the point he made sure he was never alone in a room with any of them.

And it hardly helped matters that Maleficent was either very late or not planning to show up at all. Diaval inwardly fretted about that, not only for his own sake but for hers, too. Had she discovered something on the island?

Once breakfast was out of the way, the meeting began. It wasn’t long until Diaval was invited to address the table. So there he stood, suddenly at a loss for words and twiddling his fingers nervously as numerous pairs of eyes watched him with either approval or suspicion.

“If I might be so bold as to suggest a little recap, my friend?” John kindly assisted, apparently deciding the silence had gone on long enough. He gestured at the various lords and ladies present. “It might help to get us all up to speed, I think, before we hear this idea of yours.”

“Oh!” Said Diaval, then cleared his throat. It was unbelievable just how out of place he felt there and then, a raven at a table of royals and nobility, despite the new title that he wore. Had Aurora truly thought he’d have any idea what to do with such a thing? 

Adjusting the hem of his doublet, he nodded and nervously regarded the people watching him.

“Yes, erm … So, it does seem that the threat of this war really began when the Moon Witch stole a powerful artefact from the Dark Fae: the Phoenix Emerald, which she used to massively enhance her magic and set off a deadly winter across Wickpon. She might have trapped the entire world in it. She was defeated, but the whole thing no doubt caught the attention of other kingdoms. A couple of years later, Ulstead received a visit from envoys of Perceforest and Breoslaigh, and they were interested to know where the other magic artefacts were. There are three more, I think, under the protection of the Dark Fae. They left unhappy. That night, as I reckon you know, the Feth Fiadha came to Ulstead.” He paused, giving the emotional weight of that time to settle. “I went to Breoslaigh myself and flew into the castle. They have this magical flame there that they stole from … somewhere, but it’s related to controlling the Feth Fiadha.”

The lords and ladies about the table murmured among each other, though not loudly enough to interrupt.

“I came here today to say that … well, I think this all goes back further than we think. I also found an active fairy ring two leagues from Breoslaigh. In the stories of the Moorfolk, fairy rings are ways in and out of the Otherworld, or thin the veil enough to strengthen one’s connection to it. I saw there a plan that unfolded hundreds of years ago between the Morrigan and, er … someone else, not sure who. She sent the dragon that destroyed Eastwend, and cursed Breoslaigh to remain in this constant drought. The corruption is makin’ its way in from the other side of that ring. So -“

“Excuse me?” Percival, the Captain of the Guards, interrupted. “You mean to tell us that you went back in time and saw the Morrigan herself plotting against the eastern kingdoms?”

There were a few quiet scoffs and titters at that. Diaval kept his composure.

“Such is the nature of the rings. Sometimes they’ll show you what needs to be seen. You all saw the Feth Fiadha for yourselves. It’s not too much of a stretch to think there were gods behind the destruction of other cities, too, is it?”

“Right,” Percival agreed, though not in a matter that was entirely amicable. “Put us out of our misery, then. Why do they seem so intent on destroying us?”

“Well, I …” Diaval thought a moment, wishing he could present them with a solid answer. “I don’t know. I can only imagine that they are doin’ what they exist to do. They _are_ gods of death and war, and ‘cause Breoslaigh has that flame, they’re claimin’ all the souls that they could want. But I think if we’re able to destroy that corrupted fairy ring outside that city, it would sever the connection to the Otherworld and end Breoslaigh’s drought. We can give ‘em the food and water that their people need.”

He was met with silence. 

The men and women all stared at him, mouths positively agape.

“Hold on a minute. You propose that we _help_ the people that sent the Feth Fiadha and killed citizens and soldiers alike here?” Percival asked incredulously.

“Their _queen_ did that. It’s the rulers that must be held accountable. I’ve been to that kingdom. The soldiers may as well be children, and their upper ranks are rife with those who like to abuse their power. Their people are jaded and tired with all the sufferin’ they’ve seen, but if their queen won’t put it right, then we can. Why would they follow someone who doesn’t care about ‘em after that? I don’t think that anybody else needs to die. Not on either side.”

“It’s too much of a risk!” Percival finally dropped his somewhat condescending tone. Standing up, he jabbed a finger down onto the map, pointing at the river that separated the Moors and Breoslaigh. “You _are_ mad if you think that’s a good idea. You informed Queen Aurora that they are preparing for war with use of iron. They are a stone’s throw from your kingdom. If you give them the means to gain strength, what’s to stop them from storming the Moors?”

“They won’t,” Diaval muttered, thoughtfully stroking his chin as he gazed down at the map.

“And what makes you so sure? You’re basing this entire idea on _trust_. This is not some fairytale where you give them food and we all frolic away from Breoslaigh. The contempt with which they have been raised will not simply disappear if we show them a moment of kindness.”

“They won’t invade the Moors,” Diaval repeated surely, raising his head to look the captain in the eyes. “If they try, they’ll fail. They know it. All the iron is them overcompensatin’. The reality is that they’re terrified the Moors is gonna attack _them_ , ‘cause those are the lies that they’ve been told. They are terrified by fairies, even if most of them have never even laid eyes on one.”

There was more murmuring at that. Diaval was still unsure whether it was of assent or disagreement, but that lack of clarity could yet work in his favour.

Percival just scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. Disheartened by that, Diaval instead turned his attention to the king, who was slowly scratching at his beard and glancing about the map.

“Majesty, their city is large but their population is small. Perceforest is even smaller than Ulstead. Their two kingdoms are so far apart. It’s no wonder they’re usin’ the Feth Fiadha.”

“Indeed,” John said unsurely, steepling his fingers at his chest. “Dear boy, you’re aware that Breoslaigh is arming Perceforest via the southern roads, aren’t you? And didn’t you mention to Aurora that you suspect another attack forthcoming?”

Diaval nodded hastily. “Yes, Majesty. I’ve thought about it. I’m not entirely sure that Perceforest means much to Queen Orlaith. The weapons are likely just a ploy to gain their loyalty. But I think Perceforest could try to Ambush you from the south if they get desperate. It might not sound like much of a threat … but imagine it in unison with the Feth Fiadha. We need to win Breoslaigh over before they use any strategy they have up their sleeve. They know they can’t win with strength alone.”

“Goodness, you have been thinking about it,” John muttered. Appearing vaguely uncomfortable, he dabbed at the light sheen of sweat forming on his brow. The stress of it all must have been getting to him.

“Nearly every wakin’ hour, Majesty,” Diaval confirmed with something of a crack to his voice.

Percival just shook his head and gnawed on his lower lip. He looked about the table, as though expecting some of the others to offer up further arguments, but there were none forthcoming. That seemed to annoy him a great deal. Flinging his hand out in frustration, he gestured fervently at the map again, this time towards the massive representation of the Moors there.

“Oh, come on! Must it be so complicated? The Dark Fae are holding on to these supposed artefacts of great power. _Weapons_ . And yet the Moors are content to just sit on them, never to use their magic? And what of Maleficent?! A living, breathing Phoenix, who can level cities! And _you_.” The captain pointed a moment towards Diaval. “Breoslaigh isn’t just terrified of fairies. They’re terrified of dragons! You could fly over there right now and scare them into giving up the flame and ending it all!”

There was desperation in the man’s voice, thinly veiled beneath the beginnings of anger. It was understandable, perhaps. His very duty was the protection of Ulstead and its royal family. An enormous responsibility to bear, indeed, though he spoke as though he already knew his suggestion was a lost cause. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead, troubled, and as much as they had opposed each other in the past, Diaval could not help but feel for him somewhat.

It was not Diaval to speak the argument, however. He sat back down, already having sensed Aurora’s rising ire in the way she tensed beside him. The young queen abruptly stood, followed by her perpetual entourage of butterflies, and glared so fiercely that the men opposite her seemed to actually recoil from the very sight of it.

“You suggest that we become the very thing that they fear us to be,” she said sternly, the disappointment so laden in her voice that even Diaval felt the effects of it. “My people are not going to terrify kingdoms into submission. We are the Moors. We are _peaceful_. We are not the monsters they tell their children to fear. They have suffered for centuries from hunger and civil war. We must fight for them, not against them. And if Queen Orlaith refuses to cooperate after that …” Aurora raised her head in a moment of defiance. “Then we shall take the flame from her castle in such a way to avoid as much harm as possible!”

Diaval choked on his water. 

Stunned by what he’d heard, he gaped up at his daughter in such sincere surprise that he could not even think of anything to say back to her. She glanced at him, briefly, and smiled.

“My father knows the way in, if need be. I’m hoping it won't come to that. If we can win Breoslaigh’s friendship, we can put the flame back where it belongs together!”

Positively overflowing with pride, Diaval sat there with the composure the present company necessitated, though he wished more than anything in that moment to hug his wonderful, brilliant fledgeling and swing her about the throne room - not necessarily for her agreement regarding the ideas he’d proposed, but because she saw the worth in it when so many humans were quick to resort to the easiest options. 

She had the strength to make the decision so formidable, so terrifying, as to be kind. She was a powerful influencer in the very name of _good_. And she spoke her assent with such a queenly assertion that the table’s occupants looked at each other, and then they nodded.

They didn’t want a war. Diaval could have passed out from the sheer relief of it. If he weren’t so annoyed it had taken the humans so long to agree, he just might have done.

“Are we all in agreement, then?” John said, his voice wavering slightly. “That we shall lend a hand of aid to Breoslaigh by destroying the fairy ring?”

Percival said nothing, staring down at the map with a frown. The others, however, met the king’s question with a rousing chorus of agreement.

“Very well, then. Diaval, I trust you might take some of the Dark Fae with you?”

“Yes, Majesty, and maybe a representative of Ulstead, too, if you’d be willin’. Phillip?”

Prince Phillip looked mildly surprised to hear his name - he had been gazing with some concern towards his father. However, before he could answer, Percival abruptly cut in.

“Not the prince. _I’ll_ go.”

The captain stared at Diaval, likely expecting him to reject the offer, and there was a moment where Diaval considered saying no just because he would have much rather taken Phillip on such a venture. There was also the fact that Percival did not like him. Not one bit, that much was evident, his sharp eyes steeped in mistrust. No doubt he was offering himself up just in case Diaval really did turn out to be the disingenuous creature that he was rumoured to be, a fear born of genuine concern for his prince and kingdom more than it was a truly mindless contempt. The man was, after all, courting Shrike, the leader of the jungle fey.

Or maybe he hoped to murder Diaval and make it look like a freak accident. He wouldn’t put it past most humans. Who really knew? The shapeshifter, for one, was really quite tired of people trying to kill him, but he gave the captain the benefit of the doubt.

“Alright,” he nodded. “Then I’ll send a pixie when we’re ready to receive you in the Moors.”

Percival copied his nod, still eyeing him with suspicion.

Those present resumed talking among themselves after that, conversations somewhat brightened by the fact they had finally landed on a plan after such a long period of indecision. Watching them with rising hope, Diaval turned to Aurora and waggled his eyebrows at her, and she laughed delightedly.

“I think your mother would be really proud of us today! Wherever she is. We’re turnin’ the tide in the name of the Moors!”

“You were brilliant!” Aurora commended brightly, shaking at his arm with enthusiasm. “I knew you could do it! We must return home at once and begin the preparations! Do you think mother will join you in Breoslaigh?”

Diaval wasn’t sure how to answer that.

He would not get an opportunity to, either.

A sudden silence erupted around the table. Turning in his seat, Diaval found that Phillip’s evident concern was not without just reason. King John was suddenly deathly pale and leaning over the side of his chair as though he might be sick. At once, the prince shot out of his chair and very carefully eased his father upright.

“The meeting’s over. Thank you for your time today,” Phillip said all too firmly, his features creased with worry. He gestured at the decorated lords and ladies. “All of you, out. Percival, please fetch the castle doctor. Diaval, will you help me take him to his room?”

Everybody sat quietly a moment longer, struck by the suddenness of the king’s downward turn, but they did not wait much more before scattering. Percival kicked his seat out of the way and charged towards the grand throne room doors and out. The others were soon to follow, chattering alarmedly among themselves. Meanwhile, Diaval shot to his feet and quickly pulled the king’s arm over his shoulders so that they could heave him upright. Aurora lingered worriedly nearby, her smile shot to pieces.

“Oh, my,” John babbled, trying to smile despite his evident discomfort. “Oh, I feel all sorts of peculiar this morning. I do hope you’ll forgive me for cutting the meeting short.”

“Nonsense, father,” Phillip said at once. “It was good of you to come. Let’s get you back to your chambers.” The young man was fraught with worry, that much was clear, but he was admirable in his attempts to conceal it within his father’s sights. 

Together, Phillip and Diaval escorted the king into the labyrinth of torchlit passages that awaited. Before long, he was relying on their strength entirely, barely able to lift his own feet off the ground. By the time they arrived at the royal chambers, they’d amassed a small group of guards following behind them, too, who stayed to wait outside once the king was hoisted within.

As carefully as they could, they lowered the king down onto his large, extravagant bed. Poor John was positively grey by then, great orbs of sweat dripping down his temples into his greying beard. He must have been feeling dreadful for the entire meeting, and yet he had presided over it regardless, eager to listen and find a solution. That was just John all over, simply put. He was certainly one of the kindest, most decent humans that Diaval had ever met. Even if it _had_ taken the king quite some time to get his name right. 

“What’s going on?” Phillip pressed, pulling a velvet stool forwards to sit at his father’s bedside. “When did this start?”

“This morning, after breakfast, I’m sure of it. No need to fret, dear boy! … No doubt it’s simply an upset stomach. Perhaps a reaction to … ugh, that concoction sent to me from Wilton to ease my poor sleep …” John trailed off into a weak sort of wheeze, pointing loosely towards a small, glass vial on the table nearby.

“Insomnia? Father, you never mentioned anything of it! We could have brought you something from the Moors!”

“Oh, honestly now, we have much bigger things to be worrying about! Wilton is surrounded by herbs of medicinal properties! It’s simply …” John closed his eyes and rested his head back against the plush pillow, “... a marvellous place. I would take you there as a boy. You did love to chase those poor seagulls around … And how your mother would laugh ...”

Diaval moved quietly over to the table, immediately suspicious. He picked up the little glass vial and swirled the clear contents a moment, then uncorked it, raising it up to his keen nose.

His heart dropped.

He knew that scent. 

It was one his own parents had warned him about, long ago. He remembered standing on the forest floor with his parents and siblings, learning about the ever present danger that existed down there where the sunlight beamed through the dark trees. Some birds were foolish enough to eat it, he learnt, and some were fine doing just that, but it killed others. Ravens were too smart to even risk it, no matter how sweet and delicious that tiny black fruit smelt.

They called it _bás beag dubh_ in their own tongue. Little black death. 

The smell was piercing. There must have been a highly concentrated amount of it in that clear fluid, which was half drained. Aurora stared at him from the window, her eyes wide with fear. Similarly, Phillip watched him from the side of the bed, his face falling.

“What is it, Diaval?” He managed, taking his father’s hand into his own. 

Diaval swallowed thickly. He dropped the vial, then stepped on it to crush the glass underneath the heel of his boot. There, the liquid absorbed into a small patch of the colourful, woven rug.

John seemed to be sleeping, or else did not seem to be aware of anything going on. It was likely for the best.

“Nightshade,” Diaval rasped. Quickly turning, he headed for the bedroom door. “I’ll be back. Warm vinegar is supposed to nullify the toxin in the stomach.”

The last thing he saw in that room was Phillip’s face creasing with devastation. 

He could hardly believe it himself. What idiot had put nightshade in an insomnia remedy?! Certainly, it would make the victim sleep, but not in the sort of way any decent person intended! The chances were that there was in fact nothing decent about the remedy at all, and had not been designed to help the king.

There was no time to lay blame. Not yet. There was no time to even really think about what was happening and let the reality of it land. 

Diaval turned into a raven and soared through the castle halls as quickly as his wings could carry him. He crashed into a few servants along the way and croaked his apologies as he immediately took to the air again, flitting past the corners and down the many staircases until he reached the kitchens. 

Much to the fright of several cooks and maids, he crashed into the vast room, nearly falling over flat on his face when he transformed into his man-shape again to hurriedly scour the shelves.

“Vinegar!” He bellowed to the humans around him, who were a mixture of scared and furious in his presence, yelling at him when he began yanking bottles and jugs off the wooden shelves near the stove. “The king needs it!”

After what seemed an age, a young maid clambered up the shelves and tossed him a large, glass bottle. At once, Diaval grabbed a steel pot and hung it over the fire, hissing when the hot smoke licked at his fingers. Unceremoniously yanking the bottle open, he tipped its entire contents into the pot and impatiently waited for it to warm up.

He did not turn to look at the humans, knowing full well the mistrust he would find in their faces. The young maid, however, at least had her senses about her, and she quickly found a bronze goblet to bring to him. She looked scared, though not because of _him._ Perhaps she was one of the few who understood the need for vinegar and its effects on plants, though she wisely did not say anything that could incite a panic.

“Thank you,” he said to her with full sincerity. The girl bowed her head and stepped aside.

Diaval’s leg jittered as he waited. He stared into the fire, terrified by the turn of events. Poor King John! Such a kind-hearted man absolutely did not deserve this. With a little time and good fortune, the vinegar would ease the effects of the poison before it could do much more damage, and the clear attempt on his life would be reversed.

Once a few agonising minutes had passed, Diaval retrieved a goblet-full of vinegar and sped out of the kitchens. He ran as fast as he could, dodging the very same servants he had crashed into on the way, and leapt up several steps at a time when faced with one of Ulstead castle’s daunting, grand staircases. He was extremely careful not to allow a single drop of the liquid to escape the goblet, however, holding it in front of him as though he held the very nectar of the gods itself.

He arrived in the long hall outside the royal quarters just in time to see the castle doctor hurriedly making his way towards the door. With a sound of relief, Diaval raced over to him, proffering the goblet forwards.

“Here!” He insisted desperately, startling the lavishly dressed doctor, who spun to regard him with surprise and - fear? “It’s nightshade poisonin’! I warmed vinegar up in the -“

The heavy tome in the doctor’s hands _thunked_ so hard into the side of Diaval’s head that he went flying onto the ground.

The world span. Quite surprised to find himself on the floor, Diaval forced his vision to refocus.

And he saw the goblet rolling off a small distance away, its contents spilling out onto the stone.

He stared, and his stomach lurched. 

“YOU BLOODY IDIOT!” Diaval shouted, enraged. He was suddenly so angry that his heart pounded viscerally in his head. With a snarl, he threw himself up off the floor and seized the doctor by the arms. “He needs vinegar! It’s nightshade! I know what I’m talkin’ about! I grew up in the wild, you book-flingin’ hound!”

By then, the guards were closing in. Aurora appeared at the door of the bedroom. She cried out in anger and tried to push her way through all six of them to get to her father, but one of them pushed her back roughly enough that she stumbled over the hem of the doctor’s robe and fell down onto her side.

Before Diaval could really think about what he was doing, he punched the guard responsible hard enough across the cheek that the man met with a similar fate, toppling clumsily down in a deafeningly loud _crash_ of armour against stone.

“DON’T YOU TOUCH HER AGAIN!” The shapeshifter shouted more mightily than he had ever shouted at anybody in his entire life. 

A metal fist buried itself into his gut. Another crashed across his face. And then another. And another. The butt of a lance knocked him off his feet, and then the weight of several guards were upon him, one of them striking at his face repeatedly. The others had their crossbows pointed at him, no doubt ready to shoot if he did something so bold as to transform and make a monster of himself.

He heard Aurora scream out in dismay. As much as he wanted to transform and defenestrate every last one of the guards out of the nearest window, he could not allow his beloved fledging to bear witness to the likely consequences of it. 

“Take the wretched creature to the dungeon!” The doctor called out cruelly. “He’ll only worsen the king’s condition!”

“No! Listen to me! It’s nightshade!” Diaval attempted. “I’m tryin’ to help! I’m just tryin’ to help!” Despite it, he was forced onto his front and his arms were bound behind his back. They were fools to think he could not at some point shapeshift out of the rope bindings, but while he had formidable crossbows aimed in his direction, he was near enough stuck.

And turning into a dragon just would not do.

Aurora had her sword unsheathed. There were tears in her eyes, and she took a brave step forward as the guards began to tug Diaval away, but he quickly shook his head. The world span in wild circles around him from the movement.

“No, Aurora! There is vinegar over the fire in the kitchen! He needs to drink the entire goblet full! I’ll be alright, diamond. Off with you, now!”

Diaval was yanked out of the hall. Three of the guards dragged him along the stone floor, while the other three walked behind and kept their crossbows trained on his torso. To his relief, however, he saw Aurora run out in the opposite direction, the bronze goblet held fast in her hand.

As the rush of it all began to wear off, everything really started to hurt, somewhat. His entire face felt like it was on fire. The guard who’d hit him had even succeeded in dislodging a tooth, which he spat out in a large glob of blood directly underneath the foot of one of the following guards. For that, he earned himself a kick to the shin, which was really nothing in the scheme of things, so he cursed the guards loudly and brazenly to their faces, unleashing torrents of profanities he usually would have reserved for the very worst of villains. 

Not very clever, perhaps, but he was angry and scared enough to fall prey to a moment of stupidity. It was almost worth it for the looks on their faces.

They were dragging him around for what felt like so long they may as well have traversed the whole castle. Maybe that was the point, Diaval realised. They were putting on quite the show, pulling him about the place as if he were a criminal. The castle staff watched in horror, some of them likely having their own suspicions confirmed: that Diaval was no good, a wickedness finally being taken to the dungeons where he belonged. All the while, their king lay extremely ill, poisoned by an actual, genuine threat. He wanted to roar at them in his frustration, tell them that he was _just trying to help,_ but who was going to listen?

The six guards became eight, and then eight became ten, as others joined out of either precaution or a sort of sadism. There were even more dangerously large bolts aimed his way, now, which would surely kill him in a mere blink of an eye. It would probably be wiser to stop cursing them, then, so he silenced and settled on glaring at them all, instead, positively fuming.

The king could be dying.

The king _was_ dying, unless the vinegar proved successful. And yet here were ten of his own guards, treating Diaval as though the whole thing was his fault, their basis being unjust, _idiotic_ rumours. Did they do this out of genuine concern for the king, or to somehow prove a point? To exhibit a hatred they could no longer express for the fairies?

Just when Diaval thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, or the behaviour of the guards even more ridiculous, they came to a stop outside of a room that he had never seen. As though they operated silently as a hive-mind, one of them opened the ancient, creaky door and revealed a small chapel that looked older than the entire castle. Diaval could see worn statues lining the walls, but could not see their faces. Upon the altar was a golden cross, which the guard considered a moment, but he instead picked up a ceremonial chalice and dipped it into the stone font that could just about be seen.

Had they been _planning_ this? 

And did they really, honestly thing it was going to _work_?

Diaval laughed. It was all he could really think to do. He was overwhelmed with a sickening mixture of disbelief, fear, and shame having been paraded to the lower levels of the castle in such a way. He cackled all the way to the bedraggled grey door of the dungeons, all the way down the slippery, winding stairs, and all the way along the rows and rows of barred cells. Prisoners hollered back at him, though where it was in support or further derision, he did not know.

It was typical, really. Typical that they would choose the cell opposite Queen Ingrith. The very lowest of the low.

He had a moment to see into the arch-shape leading into her temporary (or permanent?) abode, though he didn’t care to take in the finer details. The woman was well looked after in a large, carpeted space. She even had an extravagant double bed covered in silks. She was sat at a writing desk, her long, blonde hair loose down the back of her simple dress, and when she turned to observe the commotion, her hateful grey eyes fixed upon him.

He would have preferred the eyes of a goat, that was for certain.

It was the least of Diaval’s worries for the time being. The rusty door to his cell was pulled open, and he was thrown inside to crumple on the uneven stone, unable to break his fall given that his hands were still bound. It was probably time to seriously consider shapeshifting despite the massive dangers of it; something told him a bolt to the chest would be a kinder fate than whatever it was the guards had planned for him.

Most of them entered the cell, keeping their crossbows aimed rigidly down at him. The two left behind moved off, presumably to keep an eye on the dungeon entrance and prevent visitors.

And then the one holding the chalice drew forwards. Their silence was extremely disconcerting, as though Diaval had unwittingly gotten himself involved in some sort of ritual. (It wouldn’t be the first time, truth be told, and probably wouldn’t be the last.)

Quickly, Diaval took in the size of the space over the heads of the guards. There were no windows, so the narrow bars were his only means of escape. He _could_ turn into something ridiculously small, like a spider or a moth, but then he’d be far too slow and would find himself cruelly squashed. Perhaps a bee or a wasp would do, but still, any lucky soldier could still catch him as he buzzed past, and they _were_ all soldiers and probably remarkably good shots with those crossbows.

The approaching guard pulled a silver dagger from his belt. Placing the chalice down, he gripped Diaval’s doublet and sliced it open, and then did the same to the dark shirt underneath, pulling it all apart. Diaval’s chest and stomach were exposed to the cold dungeon air, forcing him to come to the conclusion that they really were being serious, that they really were going to try and prove the truth of his supposed demonic nature. Now, of all times!

“I was tryin’ to help,” the shapeshifter attempted, barely managing the patience in his voice. “The king’s been poisoned with nightshade. Vinegar kills off plants, y’know, so he needs to drink it. I really hope that good-for-nothin’ doctor knows that!”

None of them answered him. 

Blood was filling his mouth again. He spat it out and tried to wriggle his way into a seated position, but he just found himself forced onto his back, instead. Now would be a really good time to turn into a bee. Or maybe a hummingbird. They were fast and small, weren’t they? Just blurs, really.

He stared at the ceiling, trying not to gag as blood filled his throat.

He could transform. He could feel the power there, just waiting for him to tap into it. He could undoubtedly escape without further embarrassment.

But then they would still think he was a demon, and he would spend the rest of his days constantly looking over his shoulder whenever fate deemed he visited Ulstead for political reasons. Perhaps he would have to be wary across nearly _all_ kingdoms.

Diaval had spent near enough his entire life being distrusted or hated. At a personal level, that was fine with him. He’d had no reason to care about what stupid humans thought of him; he had his family, who loved him, and that was what mattered. 

But Aurora was a queen now. She represented the entire Moors, and part of her job was to uphold its reputation. It was _his_ job, too. How was he supposed to serve her if he was forced to spend the rest of his life in hiding? That she was not biologically of his blood was a blessing in disguise, it truly was, for nobody could call _her_ a demon. They could, however, discredit her for associating with one.

And what of the little ones growing in Maleficent’s belly? Would they grow up with the same stigma attached to them? Being of his brood would make them demons, in part, and Diaval suddenly had the frightful image of his little ones flying for their lives, burning torches and pitchforks leering up at them from below. He could hardly believe he was having to consider such things, but given the sheer ignorance and stupidity he had witnessed in his life, it shouldn’t have been surprising.

His children would not suffer such a life. Not Aurora. Not the twins.

He stared at the soldier. He saw the same hatred he had seen a thousand times over.

“Get on with it, then,” he pushed, nodding towards the chalice in the stranger’s hand. “Prove to everyone what a big, scary demon I am! C’mon, cabbage-for-brains. Or are you scared you’ll be proved wrong? You know what this could mean for you, whichever way this goes.”

The guard stared at him a moment longer, swirling the water in the chalice. Then, he finally spoke.

“My daughter … she’s seven. Six when the Feth Fiadha came. She hasn't ever left the house since then. Do you know what the scariest thing she saw during the invasion was?”

Diaval didn’t answer, his jaw tightening.

“A great, black dragon that drowned the sky in flames. One that nearly trampled hundreds of wounded men beneath his feet. She’s terrified that if she leaves home, the dragon will come to eat her. She’ll live with that dragon she saw for the rest of her life. Whether or not you’re a demon in flesh remains to be seen, but I think … Diablo will always be a demon in the minds and hearts of men. You represent _everything_ that they fear. The shadows. The flame. The unknown. _Death_. Call yourself a bird all you like, but you’re not that. You never will be again.”

The chalice raised, and for the first time, Diaval beheld it with fear. 

_Your servants can find their way into the Otherworld through this ring, and for as long as it stays open, these meadows will be barren and run with the blood of saints._

The water fell onto his exposed body. 

Water was not supposed to burn.


	9. Casting Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been a bit sick lately and I wrote most of this while super tired, please forgive me if it’s not up to par! Hope you’re all well and taking care of yourselves. ^^

It was a cold feeling, even if it felt like he was consumed by fire.

Maybe it was just that he was adopting a higher threshold for this sort of thing. That would be useful. Unsurprising, too, given the way in which all manner of greater creatures wanted to hunt and hurt a raven like him. He could hear a sound that was like screaming except there was something so angry, so unearthly about it that it couldn’t have possibly been him. Could it?

It was all a trick. That was the only explanation. Somebody had snuck into the chapel and replaced the holy water in the font with something else to frame him. They were getting clever, those humans. Everyone knew that holy water was _just_ water, and could certainly have no bearing on a demon, let alone a _raven_.

As though he’d entered a nightmare, everything seemed to move in slow motion around him. There was a strange sense of calm despite the smell of burning flesh, but he couldn’t move. His arms were locked behind his back so he could do nothing to try and protect himself from the last remnants of the water. All he could do was watch the man responsible and wish him the most unfortunate accident once this was all over.

In true nightmarish fashion, the agony of it finally seemed to land. Things started to speed up. The guard had him by the neck, now, but there was nothing he could do about it, so entirely absorbed in trying to writhe his way out of the awesome pain that a tiny part of him simply wished for the guard to finish the job. Diaval screamed himself hoarse, only vaguely aware of being jolted about, and then a hard impact on his chest.

Merely a fist, one would hope.

The line of guards were staring at him with abject shock. Had they not actually expected it to work? Maybe that put to bed the idea of them framing him, then. Diaval had about half a second to consider that before a fresh wave of hot, rancid agony swept across his entire body. This wasn’t really how it _ended,_ was it? It would be sort of embarrassing, and extremely tragic. At least he wouldn’t have to know what the humans would do now that they thought _without a doubt_ that he was some sort of demon.

_Stupid. Don’t be STUPID. You’ve gotten out of much worse!_

Think. Think. _Think_.

He forced himself to open his eyes again, hearing a muffled shout from far away. The world was spinning. He couldn’t breathe, he realised. How long had that been happening? Gathering his strength, he curled his legs up underneath the body of the man he could only presume was still attacking him, and then catapulted him off towards the others.

The others were gone. 

The guard crashed back against the bars, dropping his crossbow. Luckily, it wasn’t nocked. Though, hadn’t it been? Moments ago?

Diaval panted and wheezed, trying to regain his breath. There was something new for him to focus on, now: a tall, burry red shape hovering near the cell door. Weird. Where did the other guards go? Did that big, red blur gobble them up? It did look like it was swinging some giant cutlery around, or was that …

Oh. A sword. For once, it wasn’t aimed at him. Something to celebrate later, if he got out of this alive.

Taking the opportunity, Diaval wriggled backwards away from the water burning at his back, and he curled up against the cold, stone wall behind him. Everything was searing. His skin was positively _crawling_. It was only then he felt the violent tremble to his limbs, and his mind was threatening to collapse in on itself, trying to darken the world to take him to another place and time. The hand at his throat had encouraged the untimely straying of his thoughts, accompanied by the tearing of his clothes and the feeling of something sharp, somewhere, burying into muscle and bone.

There was a dull _thud_. Diaval panicked. Cold sweat prickled at his brow. Something was going to happen, and he was there with his arms bound and his garments ripped open. What would this new person do? Make an example of him as the others had done?

“It’s alright. It’s me,” said a low voice, familiar but … not, all at once. “Jesus.”

Despite himself, Diaval started at that, squinting fiercely as the blurred shape gradually began to take form.

“ _What?!”_

“No, I meant - Jesus, as in look at you! I was hoping we weren’t right about you.”

It was Percival. Despite the ice-cold fear rampaging through his newly wrecked body, Diaval forced a defiant scowl on his face and snarled as viciously as he was presently able. It wasn’t a particularly impressive sound, though hopefully it would get the point across.

“Don’t touch me,” Diaval hissed, drawing his legs up and baring his teeth. “I’ll shapeshift! I’ll turn into an enormous bear and bite you clean in half! Don’t take another step!”

Percival stopped. He knelt down and rested his sword on the ground, then held up his hands in a manner probably meant to be placating. It did nothing to comfort the shapeshifter curled up there like a beaten dog, but it did give him a small opportunity to try and focus his thoughts, even if it was like trying to see through swamp water.

The guard was crumpled on the ground by the bars, his helmet knocked off his head at some point. As for the others … it was a mystery. Had Percival scared them off? He was their captain, after all. But why would he do that? Even Percival himself looked highly confused about the situation. His gaze drifted down to what he could see of Diaval’s chest, no doubt assessing the burn that he found.

Diaval looked down, too, and found more than he bargained for. The burn was nasty, yes, red raw and shiny and leaking with a clear fluid where the skin had been seared open. Other parts of it were black, scorched to nothingness. The sight of it immediately made him feel extremely sick and nauseous, but it was already starting to heal at the edges in that mysterious fashion, just as it had in Breoslaigh.

The rest of him was not so lucky. Not yet, at least. His head was pounding, his face was tight and burning. Worst of all, though, was the iron bolt impaling the join of his chest and right shoulder. 

Oh. He couldn’t remember that happening.

He stared blankly at it. The thick prong was so well embedded that it may as well have been a part of him.

If he wasn’t still ruined by the pain of the burn and the frantic panic trembling in his limbs, he might have laughed. It was just … there was something sort of funny about it, somewhere in the recesses his mind. He hadn’t expected this fiasco, not at all. Maybe that was foolish.

What _wasn’t_ funny was the fact King John was suffering at the hands of an unseen assailant. It wasn’t funny at all that Prince Phillip was faced with the very sudden prospect of ruling a kingdom alone. And … oh, gods, what would Maleficent do when she found out? 

It was better this than being dead, otherwise Ulstead would be a mere scorch mark scarring a meadow in a matter of hours. Still, he expected unfortunate repercussions. Maybe Percival did, too, and what was why he actually looked somewhat concerned. The guards were _his_ jurisdiction, and they had threatened the relationship between the Moors and Ulstead by abusing their power in such a way.

Fearing the human’s presence even more, Diaval tried to shuffle away from him. He needed to shapeshift! A cold, niggling voice in his mind, however, told him that would be a very bad idea now that there was a bolt shoved however deep into a rather integral part of his body. For all he knew, it would shift adversely if he changed shape. At a true loss for what to do, he sat there and waited for the burn to heal, staring down at it with true mortification.

Percival was watching, too, his face slack. 

“I can’t explain it,” Diaval admitted shakily. “Or maybe I can. You heard the story about Wickpon, d-didn’t you? It’s just - it’s somethin’ else the spirit gave me, that’s all. Ravens can’t be demons, it isn’t possible.”

The captain regarded him unsurely, lowering a hand to touch the moisture on the stone and rub it between his fingers. Then, he slowly picked up the sword. 

Diaval’s heart jolted at that, and he scrambled back.

“No! Wait, just think about it! If I was a demon, I would’ve escaped by now! You can’t - you _can’t_. We’ve just united! If somethin’ happens to the friendship between our kingdoms, it’ll break Aurora’s heart! I need to be there -“ Desperate, he struggled at the bonds ensnaring his wrists, his eyes fixed on the blade of Percival’s sword. “I was just tryin’ to help the king. It’s nightshade poisoning! I brought vinegar from the kitchen but the doctor - and then one of ‘em pushed Aurora over -“

“Diaval,” Percival said calmly. “Shut up for a minute, will you? I believe you. I don’t know what the hell you are, but … I’ve had a _lot_ of men lie to me in the past. I know you’re telling the truth. I know that you and Aurora love each other fiercely, and the last thing I want is for Ulstead to lose the Moors, too. _This_ ,” he gestured over Diaval’s form and grimaced, “should not have happened. I’m sorry.”

Relief eased the frantic hammering of Diaval’s heart. Just a little. He cautiously leaned away when that sword neared him, staring at Percival with surprise. His fear was soon enough turned to anger, just as potent, brimming to the very precipice like lava threatening to spill from a volcano. Reality was dawning as the shock gradually wore away. Here he was, near enough begging for his life. It was utterly humiliating. It really felt as though a simple apology could not quite alleviate years - nay, _decades_ of such things hanging over one’s head.

The humans had attacked him for trying to do the right thing. _Again_.

“Turn around,” the captain muttered, grabbing Diaval’s good shoulder to help shift him. With his sword, he sliced through the rope and tossed it aside, then helped remove the ruined garments that had soaked up some of the water from the ground. “You can’t be seen like this. News will spread about the king soon, and you’ll look responsible if you go around Ulstead in this state. Does, er … does that hurt?” He asked reluctantly, staring at the iron bolt when Diaval turned again. “That needs to come out.”

“Oh! Does it? I thought I’d keep it, actually. Nice little souvenir, I thought. Shame I didn’t get one the first time Ulstead soldiers tried to kill me.”

Percival’s jaw tensed. “Watch your tongue, raven.”

“What will you do if I don’t? Cut it out?”

“Don’t give me ideas. Remember that I’m Ulstead’s Captain of the Guard.”

“And I’m the Lord Chancellor of the Moors, but I’ve suffered much more for our kingdoms than a bit of sarcasm. What if our positions were reversed, then? What if you were dragged into the Moors and beaten for tryin’ to help them? We’d have hell to pay from your people, we know that from experience! Don’t tell me to watch my tongue!”

Summoning his strength, Diaval rose to his feet. Movement was easier now that the burn was healed, but now he was faced with other problems. Namely, he was trapped in Ulstead with murderous guards who were no doubt spreading the news at that very moment, but it wasn’t as though he could just hang around in the dungeons, twiddling his thumbs while he waited for rescue.

Wobbling a bit, he quickly wiped blood and dirt from his eyes and shambled over to the cell door.

“Is there another way out of here?” He muttered, breaking the tense silence that had fallen after his outburst.

Percival stood and joined him, casting a critical eye down to the raven-headed sword at the shapeshifter’s waist.

“Yes. Didn’t you at least try to fight back?”

“D’you really think I can fight off ten guards with my hands tied? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You could have shapeshifted and flown away, couldn’t you?”

“Sometimes, it isn’t quite that simple,” Diaval shot back, not particularly in the mood to explain the truth behind his lack of shapeshifting. “I need to get to the Moors.”

“Fine. Wait here and I’ll find the key for the tower.” Percival made to move off, then paused, deliberating. Sucking his lips between his teeth in a show of absolute reluctance, he unpinned his crimson cloak and held it towards Diaval, not quite looking at him. “Here. Phillip will have my head if his father-in-law carks it.”

With equal unwillingness did Diaval take it from him and awkwardly pull it on one-handed. 

“We’ll be in a gated alley once we get out. I’ll find you a horse. After that, you’re on your own. I need to be with Phillip and the king,” Percival continued. “The person responsible for all this must come to justice. Are you sure you don’t know anything?”

Teeth gritting, Diaval moved out of the cell and leaned against the outer wall, pulling the cloak taut about his bare chest as best he could. Prisoners from the long line of cells in front of him were staring at him from between the bars. Terrible people, then, to have earned themselves such a fate in King John’s kingdom. If this was the sort of person Ulstead thought of him as, what did that mean for Aurora?

Swallowing his anger, he turned to Percival.

“I don’t know of any plot,” he muttered, “but deadly nightshade grows in abundance in the woods of Perceforest, and barely at all around Wilton. I think the delivery from the village was intercepted and tampered with.”

“Hm,” was all Percival said in response, and then he walked off down the cobbled passageway.

“Captain! Will you …” Diaval sought his attention again, panic reemerging. “Aurora, will you …?”

“The queen will come to no harm, raven. I’ll have her entourage escort her to the Moors as soon as possible. If there is any further news, I’ll send word.”

The captain disappeared up the winding stone staircase without so much as a glance behind him. 

Left alone, Diaval opened the front of the cloak and shakily touched at his chest, feeling the tender, newly-healed skin beneath his coarse fingers. How strange it was, such a thing happening. How very, very _bad_. Maybe the healing was a gift, but the reaction to necessitate it certainly was not, and he felt so lost scouring his muddled thoughts for answers. He’d never even met a demon, save for the devils of the Feth Fiadha which he had only seen in passing. He’d never bartered with the unholy nor sold his soul. All he wanted for the world was good things.

He was a common raven with gifts. That’s all he was in his very core. Why, then, did humans and even nature alike treat him as though he was a demon?

Trying to gather his wits, Diaval looked nervously about the dungeons in case there were any guards lingering, though it seemed the only one left was still lying unconscious in the cell. Somebody else had taken something of an interest, however - when his gaze skirted towards the cell in front of him, he found Queen Ingrith now stood away from her desk in the middle of the arched chamber, watching him with an ice-cold revulsion. When she saw him looking, her narrow lips curled in a smug little smirk.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Diaval grumbled, turning away. When he heard her light footsteps upon the plush carpet, he reluctantly glanced at her again, finding the woman peering closely at him through the bars of the cell.

“Pardon me,” Ingrith said with mock sincerity, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “It almost looks as though you’ve run out of stones, fairy.”

She said the last word with an elegant abhorrence that filled Diaval with unbridled contempt. He didn’t know whether she had actually mistaken him for a fairy or was simply likening him to one, but he didn’t care to correct her. That he was forced to be in her hateful presence was a torture of its own, no matter his predilection for peaceful solutions, for this person had tried to kill Aurora and succeeded in murdering many of the fairies. And Maleficent. She had killed Maleficent. If not for the power of the Phoenix … their family and the Moors would be no more. 

He hated Ingrith. He hated her a lot. He wanted to peck her and bite her and flap his wings at her until she couldn’t take it anymore. As it was, turning into his true shape would likely kill him while this thing was sticking out of him.

“Perhaps the people are coming to their senses, after all,” Ingrith continued, staring at him the way a cat would stare at a songbird through a window, ready to pounce if not for the barrier separating them. “I must thank you for the entertainment. It’s been a while since anything remotely interesting happened in this kingdom.”

Diaval considered mentioning John’s affliction, but thought better of it. It wasn’t his place. All the more, he feared a reaction of amusement rather than one of grief, and did not want to unwittingly provide any more supposed entertainment for her wicked enjoyment. What an abhorrent human she was! The very worst of them, he thought, but then again, there were those keen to follow in her footsteps.

He said nothing in response, but did allow himself a long and satisfying sneer. Truthfully, his thoughts were beginning to fail in their ability to form words. What remained worryingly active, however, were the more bestial aspects of his mind, the various animals whose instincts he remembered well, and they were angrier and more frightened than the human side of him was. He often likened it to a man pulling a pack of barking dogs behind him on a single lead.

Sometimes, the dogs took the lead, and that was when things got a bit hairy. Quite literally. 

The pull of it began in a sudden turn in temperature and the presence of a gust that had no place in a dungeon. Something of a belated reaction to the horror of it all, certainly, which had likely saved his life, but there was no controlling it now. He had a moment to panic, fearing that the aggression he felt meant that a wolf was the more likely outcome, the mass of which probably wasn’t enough to save him from the iron bolt. Salvation came in the form of a more defensive bear, plodding grumpily out of the shadows. The downside to such a shape was that it was so enormous, he took up nearly the entire passage. 

Queen Ingrith took several fearful steps back from the bars, lips twisting in revulsion.

“Foul creature! It hardly surprises me that that feathered tart breeds with a _beast_ . And _just_ as I was about to offer some information in light of your brewing conflicts. Can you even understand me in there?”

It took all of Diaval not to strike at the bars with his paw in wake of her hateful insult towards Maleficent. Through that mire of rage and rising fear, he was given pause. Why would Ingrith want to _help?_ Did she seek to be on better terms with her captors? Or was there another ulterior motive? 

Again, she moved towards the bars and glared at him, her steely gaze like two sharp daggers aimed at his very soul. The dim torchlight of the dungeons cast her in an intimidating glow, shadows dancing about her face as though they had a life of their own. She held on so tightly to the bars that the whites of her knuckles emerged. There was something scary about the way those claw-like hands clung there, clearly wishing to bend the metal apart.

“Do you want to know something about Queen Orlaith?” She said suavely, glancing briefly over to where Percival had re-emerged from the staircase beyond. “I’ll tell you, only because she is as much a danger to my life as she is to yours. I almost died in this fetid prison when the undead prowled the castle. I will not endure such a thing again.”

“Get on with it,” Percival demanded as he came over. He positively glared at Diaval, sizing him up with a frown, though said nothing of the transformation.

“Queen Orlaith,” Ingrith began, resuming the tone of arrogance for which she was so infamous, “is dangerous. I know this. You see, Orlaith was family, once, back when I lived in Breoslaigh.” She paused, then, for dramatic effect, looking between the bear and the captain with a small smile. “She was my little sister.”

Somewhat taken aback, Diaval tried to consider the truth of that. It made no sense to him at all. The last he’d heard of Ingrith’s family, they were overthrown during a civil war. He could not think much further than that, however, for the act of thinking itself was becoming rather more difficult as time passed, not only for the bear-ish instincts clawing themselves into prominence, but for the pain and weariness seeping into his bones. 

“We don’t have time for this,” Percival announced, trying to squeeze himself past Diaval’s bulk and the bars of the cell. 

Diaval didn’t move. Ingrith turned her attention fully back to him.

“My sister was a sweet girl. Too much like our father, I suppose. She wanted peace across all the lands, and was always trying to talk our father into making friends with the fairies. She was beset by dreams as a young woman. She always dreamed of birds, she said. She would watch them from the very precipice of our castle instead of studying her _gift_.” Ingrith’s voice was once again injected with venom. Revulsion, even, the jealous glimmer of it as clear as day. “She could have destroyed the revolt with her fire, but she refused. She thought they would have mercy. Silly, naive girl. She joined the birds that day when the revolt threw her from the top of the castle.”

The torchlight flickered, as though it had sensed the chill that settled in Diaval’s heart. Even Percival was frozen, watching the queen with dread.

Ingrith seemed quite pleased with the effect of her tale. She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Slowly, she let go of the bars and drifted back into the confines of her prison, just as much a ghost of the past as her sister was.

“I was lucky enough to escape, but Breoslaigh will take me as prisoner if they capture Ulstead. I imagine they will do much worse than grant me a comfortable cell. Orlaith now rules in our father’s place from beyond the grave, it seems. I can only imagine they let her take the throne because they are afraid. After all, very few of us are granted the privilege of having our deaths reversed. Such miracles must always serve a purpose.” Ingrith watched Diaval with an unnerving intensity, then. Her eyes, so clear and so grey, were mirrors in the flickering darkness. “Mustn’t they?”

After what seemed an age, she sat down at her writing desk and turned her back to the world. 

* * *

Fleeing Ulstead while in the shape of a bear was something of a daunting task.

It was fortunate that word had not spread as far to the northern gate, which was the closest to the tower leading out of the dungeon. Similarly, Percival’s authority meant that no questions were asked. Once they were through the gate, that which faced the Blazing Sea, Percival headed back into the kingdom to begin forging order among the unfolding chaos.

Diaval was quite stuck in the stubborn bear-shape, so there was no chance of a horse. He was forced to make the journey towards the Moors on foot. Heading east along the shore, he trundled along, the iron bolt rammed into the hefty flesh of his chest paining him with every movement. The longer he travelled, the worse it got, and it soon felt like his legs would not be able to handle the great weight of his body much longer.

Swimming across the river proved somewhat easier, though it was freezing cold, even through his thick, shaggy fur. Small, lonely snowflakes swirled down from low-lying clouds every now and then, landing on the curve of his beak-like nose and sitting there quite contentedly. He focused on them as he swam, finding it necessary to keep his mind occupied lest it gave up on the matter of reaching home entirely.

On the other side of the river, with icicles clinging to his black fur, the bear looked back towards the many spires of Ulstead’s castle. He thought of King John, his fate yet unknown, and he thought of his poor son, Phillip. He thought of Aurora and hoped Percival would ensure her safety where Diaval could not. He thought of the guard in the cell, who had said and done such cruel things, and yet was filled with the very same rage and fear that Diaval had known many times when his daughter was threatened.

He thought of Ingrith and the terrible tale she had woven out of a desire to survive. Despite having seen the undead for himself, it was still difficult to believe that there was a kingdom potentially being led by one. That he had been in her dark presence, the phantom queen betrayed and murdered by her own people all because she had wanted peace with the Moors.

The woman beyond the black veil once fought for prosperity. She’d had talents and hobbies and a life of happiness until it had all come tragically crumbling down. She wasn’t a monster. At least, she _hadn’t_ been, if Ingrith’s story was true.

That complicated things.

When it reached the point Diaval could walk no more, it was evening and he was somewhere in the Forest of Dreams, fortunately being tailed by a flock of Dark Fae far behind him. He could hear them murmuring among themselves, the drag of their wings across the undergrowth, and it filled him with enormous relief to no longer be alone. At the roots of a gnarled, ancient tree, he dropped onto his front and rested.

When the Dark Fae emerged from the trees, he was surprised to see that they were of the tundra clan. The white-winged fae did not often visit the Moors, preferring the colder climates of the mountains further north, and he was surprised further to see their leader, Udo, among them. The group moved cautiously towards Diaval, weapons held aloft, but they lowered them as soon as they recognised him.

“Diaval. I thought those were your paw prints,” Udo greeted with a low bow, his calm and measured voice proving an immediate comfort. The faerie moved closer, his pale eyes moving swiftly about the shapeshifter’s large form. “You are wounded, my friend. Are you travelling from Ulstead?”

Diaval huffed amicably in response. Searching inwards, he found himself thankfully able to transform again, and so he abandoned the bear in favour of the man for the power of speech. It was cold like this. Really, very cold, but necessary; the presence of tundra fae in the Moors and the weary, almost fragile expression that the small group wore suggested unusual things at play.

At once, Udo knelt down in front of him and hovered a hand over the iron bolt. The tip of it immediately began to glow orange and steam with the faerie’s proximity.

“Careful,” Diaval warned, gently moving Udo’s hand away. “There’s been an incident in Ulstead. King John was poisoned with deadly nightshade. He’s still alive … I think. I hope.”

Udo’s sympathies softened his features at once. He nodded his horned head, troubled.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why Maleficent summoned myself and the other clan leaders here? My companions and I flew as fast as we could from Wickpon.”

Confused by that, Diaval struggled a moment. Maleficent had summoned the clan leaders’ presence? Why?

“I don’t - I don’t think she knows about John yet. She didn’t come to the meetin’ we had there this mornin’. There must be another reason.”

Without another word, Udo reached for the flask attached to his belt and offered it forwards. He watched as Diaval gratefully drank from it, silently searching his face, though he asked no questions and patiently waited until the shapeshifter seemed ready to try moving. He summoned one of his companions forth, and together they helped Diaval back to his feet and urged him onwards.

“Are we far from the castle?” Diaval croaked, somewhat dazed.

“No. No, not far. Would you prefer it if we carried you?”

“No, I - I can manage! I’ve never been better, truth be told. I think I could even go another round with the humans. All of ‘em, all at once.”

At that, Udo chuckled softly.

“My friend, your embellishments are almost as bad as theirs. I assume that’s why you’re in this state? They do not view you as favourably here as they do in Wickpon.”

“Well.” Diaval sniffed. “I can always count on Wickpon. Do they still tell stories about me?”

“Indeed, though none more so than young Prince Pioden. I heard of your bold venture into Breoslaigh several times during my visit to the castle yesterday. I have letters from them for you, though I’ll find you when you’re rested.”

That served to lighten Diaval’s heart, just a little.

The walk to the castle was arduous. By the time they reached it, night had fallen and the snow was much heavier. There was an invisible spell that kept the castle and its grounds from being overwhelmed with snow, which made things easier for Diaval as he ascended the hill with the aid of the faeries, though it was still bitterly cold. And Maleficent was nowhere in sight to ease the weather. 

The lustrous meadow of the court did not seem as fair and vibrant as it usually did. The fairies did brighten up the space as they fluttered about in response to Diaval’s arrival, though the land itself was deprived of such lustre, as though a great grief had overwhelmed it through the day. 

Concerned, he trudged forth and surveyed the fairies with a practised eye, making sure that they were all well and accounted for. Once that matter was settled, he made for the clan leaders gathered before the vacant throne, turning his gaze to the dark, clouded sky in search of Maleficent.

Merin was notably absent, too. Perhaps the pair of them were still flying back from the island.

Borra was the first to greet Diaval, raising his eyebrows in what could only be amusement and stepping over to clap the poor man on the arm.

“Well, well. If it isn’t our mighty patriarch, back from the wars!” He exclaimed with vaguely condescending mirth, grinning in that brazen, disconcerting way of his. He flicked out his impressive, tawny wings and folded his big, muscular arms across his equally muscular chest. 

The pectorals that could crack coconuts, no doubt. Diaval had not missed Borra one bit.

“Borra,” he greeted throatily, bypassing the man in favour of Shrike, the proud and stoic leader of the jungle fae. He politely bowed his head towards her, and she mirrored him with a small smile, her eyes falling to the red cloak around his shoulders.

“Diaval. Is that Percival’s? Did he aid you in this great battle of yours? Is he alive?”

“Yes, he’s fine, er …” Quickly unclasping the cloak, he made to offer it forwards, though hesitated. “Sorry, I might’ve gotten a bit of blood on it. Or a lot.”

Shrike’s nostrils flared. She took the cloak and held it aloft, admiring it as though it were a great spoil of war. 

“Even better. I shall return this to him.” Her attention returned to Diaval, glancing over his form. “What is the meaning of us being summoned today? Are we being called to arms?”

“I don’t - don’t know. We’ll need to wait for Maleficent and Merin to arrive. All I know is that they were investigatin’ some sort of corruption on the ancestral island. Queen Aurora should be headin’ here, too. Just need to be patient.” He paused, a rather intense wave of light-headednedness almost sending him toppling over. “And I need to lie down. Udo, can you explain the situation in Ulstead to the others?”

At the subtle nod of assent, Diaval gratefully moved away from the assembly, though did not venture too far in case any of the fairies needed his assistance given that neither Aurora or Maleficent were currently present. Opting for a vacant room a stone’s throw from the court, he gestured for Knotgrass and Thistlewit, who were fluttering anxiously nearby, to follow him inside. There, he laid on a flat, worn stone, quite simply incapable of moving much more.

“Oh, dear!” Knotgrass yelped, flitting this way and that about the small, decimated room. “Maleficent was beside herself when she passed through today! She can’t see you like this! What’re you doing getting yourself stuck with ...” the pixie gestured angrily at the bolt. “With this! Is it iron? You know fairy magic doesn’t work on iron!”

“Oh, do stop it!” Thistlewit interceded, reaching to tug viciously at the pink petals of Knotgrass’ dress. “Look at the poor thing!”

“Oh, you’re an old fusspot, you!”

Before the situation could devolve into one of the pair's many petty squabbles, Diaval interrupted with something of a groan.

“Would one of you ladies be so kind as to find me some furs? It’s freezin’,” he said as charmingly as he could. “And if the other could find Lickspittle?”

“I’m right here!”

Startled, Diaval looked down to find that the male pixie, Lickspittle, had indeed entered the room unseen at one point or another, though only the top of his neat, swirling hairstyle could be seen above the worn stone. In fact, Lickspittle had already unrolled all his special and terrifying tools on the ruined base of a toppled pillar nearby.

“Where the hell did you …? How -?” Diaval rubbed his head, watching as the other two pixies swiftly departed the room. 

“I was here the whole time!” Lickspittle stood on his tiptoes and grinned a toothy grin, something just a little ominous about the enormous enthusiasm of it all. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this moment!”

“You what?”

“Indeed. I saw you appear in court and I thought, well, here’s my chance! The chance to see the inner workings of the superbly rare true shapeshifter. I’ve always wondered what goes on on the inside. Haven’t you?” The pixie pulled a long, very pointy tool from his collection and held it up, still beaming.

If Diaval was able, he would have already shapeshifted and flown far, far away. As it were, Lickspittle was one of the very few in the Moors with the necessary know-how when it came to … extractions, and there was also a court outside in need of the reassurance of his presence, even if there was little that he could presently offer them. 

“You’re just takin’ this out! There’s no dissection involved! What would Maleficent think?”

Lickspittle’s pointed ears drooped considerably at that.

“Yes, well … In the _unlikely_ event of your _unfortunate_ death, might you consider donating your body to a worthy cause?”

“I’ll gladly donate my foot up your little rear end in a minute!”

Knotgrass and Thistlewit thankfully appeared with furs not a moment too soon - though were quick to depart again at the sight of Lickspittle digging through his collection of curious and questionable things. The pixie grumbled to himself, picking out a few glass vials and holding them up to the light of the torch on the wall.

The furs made life more comfortable, but Diaval silently panicked. Where was Maleficent? Why was she, as Knotgrass put it, beside herself? The iron bolt had to come out as soon as possible to minimise the risk of her rage, but something told him it was going to be a long and agonising process, given how deeply it was buried. He was already sweating at the prospect of it and mildly regretted speaking back to the only one around who could get rid of the wretched thing.

“Do you have anything for the, uh …” he uttered hopefully, though felt very queasy as he took a good look at the tool still clasped eagerly in Lickspittle’s hand. 

“For the pain? No!” the pixie replied, not sounding quite as upset about that as was due. “I don’t know magic. I work it with my genius, instead! I do have something to help take your mind off things, if you like. Drink this!” Selecting a dark vial from the mix, he held it up.

Diaval took one look at it, and frowned.

“That’s poison.”

“What? No it isn’t!”

“It has a skull and crossbones on it! Everyone knows that means poison!”

“Ah!” Lickspittle laughed giddily, then proffered up a newer, slightly more promising vial. “My mistake! This is the right one. I swear it! Or …” His head tilted, spying Diaval’s enormous reluctance. “You _could_ just go without it ...”

The vial was snatched in an instant.


	10. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I hate to sound dramatic or anything of the sort but I’ve been in a terrible funk and feeling very ill for whatever reason. I apologise if it’s been affecting the story or the writing at all. I don’t really want to take a break from it but if it’s affecting quality adversely then I might have to consider it as much as I want to carry on as quickly as I can! Writing this is literally keeping my head together and I want to provide some escape for people in these dark times but neither do I want it to completely suck! I hope everyone is keeping well and taking care of themselves and I hope you enjoy the chapter. Love you all. <3

It had been a long time since Maleficent’s heart had felt so heavy.

Gazing up at the dark silhouette of the woodland castle, she waited there at the bottom of the hill a moment more, alone and troubled. The clan leaders were there waiting, she knew, and it would not do to waste more time. She simply had not been able to face addressing the Moorfolk and the Dark Fae. Not until now, though the shroud of night provided not the comfort that it usually did.

Straightening her poise, the faerie made her way up the grassy hill and past the cold, crystal clear streams that flowed down it. She entered the court, as collected as she could possibly be despite the deep pain she felt and the shock that lingered, and the assembly fell into silence at her approach. 

The clan leaders and the other Dark Fae watching from the wings bowed to her. Borra, Udo, and Shrike were gathered before the throne, and had been murmuring among themselves before finding themselves in Maleficent’s presence. Whatever it was they were talking about, it did not seem to be good news. Such a thing felt a remarkable rarity, these days.

Before she could even begin to explain why she had used her magic to summon the clean leaders back to the Moors, Udo stepped forth to greet her, gesturing for her attention.

“Maleficent,” he said lowly. Reverently, though was not overly on the nose about it in ways that others were. “There is news from Ulstead.”

Maleficent’s heart skipped a beat. She stared at the faerie, maintaining her composure despite the immediate sensation of cold, tricking dread. Subtly, she glanced towards the fairies, hoping to find the familiar faces of her loved ones among them. 

“Aurora,” she said, and her voice sounded so dreadfully lost that she didn’t recognise herself in it at all. 

“She is unharmed and soon to arrive home. I had my companions ensure the queen’s wellness for your peace of mind. However … she is deeply upset by the events that transpired today. King John was poisoned, but we know not how he fares.”

Shocked by the news, Maleficent was frozen.

That could not be. King John … was kind, for a human. Certainly one of the few that the faerie did not mind discussing both the political and the inane with. He always, _always_ greeted the Moors family with enthusiasm and a smile, the love that flowed from him in rivers near overwhelming in its ferocity. And he was beloved by his kingdom, too, or so Maleficent had thought. She felt a moroseness at the news, and a flicker of sympathy for Phillip, though the day had already worn her down enough that a terrible numbness settled in the place devastation should have been. The capacity to feel much more seemed not to exist.

Until she smelt something on the air that disturbed her greatly. Blood, sweat, and bile, a concerning scent that had no place in the Moors.

“That is dreadful,” she responded wearily, though most of the remorse that arose was for Aurora’s sake. She knew how much the queen loved and respected John, and she had no doubt been there to witness the tragedy unfold. Maleficent was of good mind to leave the fae waiting just a little longer so that she might fly to Aurora and console her.

And she would have done, if not for a muffled, strangled cry from beyond.

“Maleficent, we know you gathered us here for a reason, but we are happy to wait until you are all rested. We’ll be here for as long as needed,” Udo quickly offered, though his words near enough fell on deaf ears.

The Moors darkened just a little more.

Maleficent moved silently to a crumbling arch nearby. Knotgrass and Thistlewit were guarding the way, though they squeaked and quickly fluttered off when they saw her approaching. She stopped, peering into the little room, and it suddenly felt as though the very cold of Winter had come to settle within her.

Her mind fell blank. Around her, ripples of green magic slowly began to manifest about the grass and the crumbling stone walls, all of it threatening to amass into a devastating energy that could tear the very castle apart with a mere thought. The misfortune was truly ceaseless, and this day was surely one of the worst of all.

Merin, the elder and leader of the forest fae, friend to Maleficent and the Moors, was dead.

King John was poisoned, and poor Aurora was no doubt grief-stricken.

And Diaval, who had gone to Ulstead in an endeavour to help humanity, had yet again paid the price for being so bold as to possess a good heart.

Maleficent tightly gripped her staff between her fingers, reigning in the enormous power that threatened to spill over in her grief and her rage. She could not act upon her anger, not _yet._ She did not know the full story, after all, though imagined she already had a good enough grasp of it. It was the same sad story that was told over and over again, one that always featured the villain that was human ignorance.

“They did this,” she said, seething, but none heard her. They were all granting a respectful distance, anxiously awaiting the moment her powers erupted.

Such a moment did not come, though the dangerous flickering of green occasionally illuminated the castle and the seas of trees beyond.

Steeling herself, Maleficent entered the room, green eyes fixed on Lickspittle. The pixie was wearing enormous, leather gloves, leaning over Diaval’s prone, twitching form with his magnifying goggles pulled over his eyes. It was clear he had been working on extracting the iron for a good while; sweat coated the both of them. It was a probably miracle Diaval was still alive at all.

Given the greenish-grey colour to his skin, he could not suffer much more of Lickspittle’s bloody attempts to dislodge the weapon. He seemed rather vacant, staring at Maleficent with wide, dilated eyes without truly recognising her, even as his body trembled and twitched with each of Lickspittle’s careful movements.

The pixie sighed and stopped what he was doing to stretch a bit. In doing so, he spotted Maleficent and jumped so hard that his tools went flying out of his hands, and he almost tumbled off the stool he was standing on entirely.

“Eek! Maleficent!”

“Move.” 

With a yelp, Lickspittle obeyed her at once and jumped down from the stool, attempting to hide his instruments behind his back with a sheepish smile.

Maleficent paid him no mind. Seating herself down at Diaval’s side, she absorbed the state her mate was in, fresh rage blooming in the taut confines of her chest. The humans had done this, and in doing so they spat on the Moors and the friendship between their kingdoms. What had their reasoning been? Had they blamed him for the poisoning of King John? Had they sought to perpetuate the falsehood of a demonic reputation, and punish it all at once?

Not as much a falsehood as Maleficent would have liked, indeed, but it was no fault of Diaval’s. _He_ was not to blame for the darkness that grew not only across the land, but within the hearts of men.

There were no answers forthcoming. Diaval gaped at her quite dumbly, his eyes pleasantly glazed over despite the position he was in.

“You ...” he rasped quietly.“Wow. Is there any chance that a common raven and a creature as magnificent as you … might become friends?”

Maleficent raised her eyebrows, caught off guard.

“We’re mated, Diaval.” 

“Ohhh.” He smiled dreamily at that, his eyes moving warmly about her face. 

Pursing her lips, she took his clammy hand into hers, though spared Lickspittle a brief, accusing glance.

“Loosieweed? Did you really think that was going to help him?”

“Well!” Lickspittle scuffed a foot on the ground, suitably admonished. “I did! He really isn’t bothered by it as much as he should be! The amnesia is only a temporary side-effect.”

Diaval nodded, as if he had any idea what was going on.

With a sigh, Maleficent pointed at the archway in a dismissive gesture.

“Leave your things. Out with you. Now.”

“Yes, Maleficent,” Lickspittle muttered, evidently disappointed. With a pout, he removed his gloves and ventured outside.

Diaval made to get up and try to swing his legs over the side of the rock, too, until Maleficent forced him back down onto the furs.

“Not you, you fool. Stay still.”

“Where’s Flitscribble goin’?”

“Where he can do no more damage, fortunately for you. Did he make any progress at all?” Leaning in, she peered down at the wound and felt the heat radiating from the iron the moment she drew close. Bearing her fangs, she hissed, knowing full well that if Diaval were a fairy, he would be long dead. So much for Ulstead making their city a safer place for the Moorfolk.

“You can’t touch it. It’s iron,” Diaval insisted, stating the obvious in something of a desperate tone. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I do not intend on it. Do you recall how it happened?”

Diaval just shrugged with his good shoulder and grinned stupidly, his head rolling to face her.

“You know, I have no idea. Dribblesnot said the humans did it. It’s really stuck, so maybe we should just leave it. I could hang stuff off it! No need to hang your cloak up, you can put it right here. Everyone should … everyone should -“

He promptly vomited. Everywhere.

Maleficent narrowly avoided it by calmly leaning back, sighing elegantly through her nose. She waited for him to finish, then swirled her fingers to banish any and all mess with the glitter of her golden magic. Reaching forth, she touched her fingers gently to his forehead and traced them slowly down to his cheek, easing more of her magic into his skin to tend to the vicious bruises and abrasions.

If he felt pain, he did not show it. Diaval shakily gained his breath and watched her with quiet adoration, perhaps not quite understanding _why_ he was feeling such a way, but allowing himself to succumb to it regardless. It was love, undeniably, in the way that he looked at her and held her hand in his, sweet and innocently concerned. 

“Sorry,” he murmured hoarsely, his eyes searching hers. “You look so sad. Somethin’ terrible has happened, hasn’t it?”

How she longed to tell him, to let her walls down for the night and gather her strength for the morning, but he was in no state to hear it all. Regardless, his presence alone was a familiar comfort and she almost relented in allowing more of that painful grief to seep through. There were pictures in her mind that she could not shake, and a reluctant, dawning realisation that everything she had to tell him was going to break his heart.

If only she’d gone with Merin to the island. If only she hadn’t been so stubborn. Yet again, her anger had gotten the better of her, and so had the desperation to understand and protect her family from the evil threatening the Moors. She could have saved Merin from such an untimely and vicious fate, if only she had been there. If only she’d opened her eyes to the true nature of the danger threatening them at every moment.

Merin would have known what to say. She always did. She would have listened and she would have known what to do. If only Maleficent had listened to her in return. Now, she was left lost in the void that the elder left behind, and she returned once more to the long, lonely time she’d never known her own mother. 

The depth of her pain was immeasurable. Those walls threatened to burst like an old, cracked dam, the river behind already overflowing. The loss was surely one that would never leave her, and holding its hand was a terrible, near crippling guilt, as burnt into her mind as the memory of Merin lying cold and still on the pebbles of the quiet shore.

Murdered in cold blood.

And to know the culprits, too, was an additional grief.

Maleficent gazed down at Diaval, the sight of him blurred through the shield of tears in her eyes. She blinked them away and found him similarly affected by her pain, even if he did not know what caused it. It spoke of the depths of his compassion that he shed tears for her without knowing why, just as he had extended his concern the very first night they’d met.

It spoke of his humanity that he was not among the unkindness that had apparently claimed Merin’s life. 

The creatures that the elder had known for the stretch of her long, tragic life, her friends and companions, her children, continued to peck at her body even after she was long gone. The animals were enslaved, twisted by their unfortunate bloodline and the power gaining strength within it, enough so that they had turned upon a faerie for reasons unknown. The ancestral forest was a haunted place, and the creatures guarded it like vengeful spectres, turned into the very monsters that humans feared them to be through no fault of their own.

Everything was worse than she could have ever possibly imagined. Her family was in danger, not only from the world outside the Moors but the threats that lingered within, too. 

Diaval gently squeezed her hand. The torchlight glistened in the dark, moistened pools of his eyes. They moved searchingly over her face, his pale lips twitching with unspoken questions.

Maleficent leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there a moment.

“You must go to sleep now,” she murmured against his skin, then pulled away a little, lightly running her fingers through his hair.

He looked up at her with a sudden nervousness. Before he could ask any questions, Maleficent wove the spell that would send him into a deep, deep sleep, and his gaze soon fell away. 

It proved something of a distraction, though hardly a welcome one, to slowly remove the bolt in such a way as to not leave a trace of iron behind. It felt to take an age, and there were moments even she felt somewhat queasy. Eventually, the bolt slid free, and she quickly healed the wound it left behind. Leaning back with a sigh of relief, she dressed her mate in a soft, dark shirt and eased the furs over him to ensure his warmth as he slept. Briefly, she inspected the new sword attached to his belt and found it spotless. 

And then she watched him for a little time, fighting the unwelcome thoughts that re-emerged now that her focus was unoccupied.

The danger Merin had warned her about was so much closer to home than she’d ever realised. It was there, right in front of her, tainting the very soul of one that she loved dearly. While there were things that the affliction explained, it paved way to a whole new world of fear and terrible mystery, for she did not know what would happen next and who else it was going to hurt.

Something had to be done about Mori’ka, and quickly. But how did one defeat an enemy without form? 

There were those that perhaps knew the answer, but that would need to wait until the morning; she could hear Aurora’s entourage approaching from the west.

Wrapping the iron bolt within one of the gloves, she went outside and summoned over Lickspittle, who was impatiently swinging his legs on a wall nearby. At once, the pixie darted over and glanced eagerly into the room behind.

“It went well,” Maleficent said flatly, proffering the bolt downwards. “Take this out of the Moors and bury it.”

“Yes, Maleficent!” Lickspittle smiled and turned the bolt upright, peering greedily at the pointed tip of it. “Tell me, does shapeshifter blood contain magical properties?”

Without answering, Maleficent strode past him and waved her hand. A burst of magic sent Lickspittle almost stumbling over with an outraged squeak, though he quickly set off towards the woods without argument.

Ahead, within the dirt path that led into the Forest of Dreams, she could see Aurora walking through the lines of lanterns, her pale skin alight with the pale blue magic that burned within them. Behind her, a cloud of fairies followed sullenly, and they slowly dispersed into the trees to return to their homes. There were certainly more fairies there than what Aurora usually left with.

Maleficent headed down the hill and awaited her daughter there with open arms. As soon as she saw her, Aurora entered a run and threw herself into her mother’s welcoming embrace, clinging tightly onto her dress and burying her head into her shoulder.

“Mother,” Aurora cried, her voice strained with emotion and weariness. “I’m so glad that you’re alright.”

“I’m fine, Beastie.” Holding the young woman close, Maleficent wrapped her wings around her in a comforting cocoon of dark feathers, affection and sorrow welling up all at once. “It’s alright. You’re home.”

She held her close for as long as was needed. Away from the court and the fairies, Aurora was free to express her misery there in the gentle hold of her mother, until the time came those sorrows ebbed away just enough that she could speak.

“You’ve heard?” Aurora managed, gripping the front of Maleficent’s dress. “Oh, it was awful. Poor John is so ill. I couldn’t - I felt so helpless, mother. There was nothing I could do! I’ve had to bring every fairy that was in Ulstead back with me just in case people saw an excuse to hurt them. I could not face it happening to anyone else. I’ve only left Riordan there to keep his father company while I must be here.” Leaning back, the queen tearfully beheld her mother. “Is father home? Is he alright? How bad was it?”

“He’s alright. He’s sleeping.” Pausing, Maleficent ran her fingers through her daughter’s golden locks, troubled. “I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there. All of this could have been avoided.”

“It isn’t your fault! It’s … Oh, I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt John. Percival seems to think that Perceforest is responsible, and he’s sent men out to investigate. What if it was Perceforest? I …” Aurora covered her face with her hands and shook her head, positively beside herself. “I left that kingdom behind, and now it’s fallen under the rule of those awful men!”

Heartbroken by that, Maleficent resumed her embrace of Aurora at once.

“Do not blame yourself for this. You did not leave Perceforest behind. Perceforest left _you_ behind. The Moors is your home and you do not owe any other kingdom your time simply because of your birth, darling. None of this is your fault.”

“But if I’d -“

“No. You left the kingdom in good hands. How the situation there might have evolved has nothing to do with you. If the people cannot rule themselves without resorting to such treachery, they only have themselves to blame.” Leaning in, Maleficent kissed her daughter’s temple and began to guide her towards the castle. “Sometimes I think that kingdom is cursed to be led by foul men, but that is no concern of ours. We have our own people to be looking after.”

Aurora gave her an odd sort of look at that, though seemed too upset to say anything further. 

When they made it up the hill and into court, Maleficent waved off the attention of the Dark Fae leaders, who seemed to be growing restless in the lack of answers forthcoming. They respectfully did not approach, however, falling back when they saw the queen’s upset, and wordlessly watched her pass into the grove of willows near to the castle.

Once in the privacy of her own space, Aurora sat on the edge of her flower bed and removed the glittering sword that was attached to her hip. Maleficent regarded the weapon with the same frown she had regarded Diaval’s, though she said nothing of it, reluctantly acknowledging the necessity of it. Indeed, her lack of comment seemed to comfort her daughter, who watched her with a sort of nervousness before curling up among the soft flowers, her troubled eyes still brimming with tears.

Maleficent wanted to cry just to see her beloved Aurora feeling so sad. She contained herself, as she usually did, sitting there on the edge of the bed beside the queen and covering her gently with a dark wing.

The grove was quiet, save for the occasional buzz of a fireflies wings, or the quiet rustling of leaves. In the pond nearby, a frog croaked his gratitude at being spared the iciness of the weather in the magically warmed space. 

Around the carven, wooden headboard of the bed, pretty blue flowers were winding, and the heads of them moved as though they were affected by a light breeze only they could feel. The leaves and stems seemed to reach for Aurora, offering solace and comfort from a world beyond their own. Maleficent reached forth and very gently touched the delicate petals, feeling a tightness to her throat and the heat of despair rise to her eyes. 

_My wish is that you’ll never be blue. Only happy, all the days of your life._

* * *

Early in the morning, while it was still dark, Maleficent moved quietly through the court, passing the sleeping fairies as silently as the Moon passed through the sky. It was still snowing, even if it felt yet too early in the year for such fervent snowfall, but there it was regardless, gathering atop the grass in a pale, glistening crown. An unpleasant reminder of times past, despite its beauty. It was only two years since the end of an unnatural Winter brought into being by the Phoenix Emerald and the Moon Witch. Only two years since Diaval had been pulled from the grasp of evil.

Or so it had seemed.

He was awake. She could sense him near the castle, and her heart pounded as she sought to follow him, dreading what was to come.

There were hot springs behind the castle, pools of water surrounded by jagged rocks of dark grey. The stone was slippery with frost. Maleficent approached the pools, much to the surprise of the usual gathering of water sprites peeping over the stones at where Diaval bathed in the water. With a few shrieks and giggles, the sprites disappeared into the various crags about the place.

Last time Maleficent and Diaval were there together, things had been much simpler.

All Maleficent had needed to worry about back then was the case of a missing stone which she had no real care for, but her people were bothered by its absence and she was keen to earn their favour by retrieving it. Diaval was highly concerned about his place in the Moors, and they had argued a little, as they tended to do. There was so much that could have been avoided in that moment, if only they’d been able to be honest with each other and speak the truths of their feelings.

Diaval was there in the exact same pool and spot he had occupied those years ago, only he didn’t rise to meet her, this time. He was too lost in thought, gazing vacantly towards the dark forests that surrounded them. When he eventually spotted her standing there at the pool’s edge, he started a little, though smiled.

They regarded each other in silence for a moment. Then, slowly, Maleficent undressed, allowing her decorated furs to fall where Diaval’s clothes were untidily folded. His gaze did not pull away from her for a second, watching unblinkingly as she moved gracefully down into the hot water to join him.

“Mornin’, beautiful,” he croaked, fidgeting a bit, though he settled soon enough when the faerie sat beside him and draped her legs over his thighs, resting against him. 

They watched the snow fall for a little while, intertwined there in the protective warmth of the springs.

The faerie felt a great moroseness fall over her in the silence. It was strange how suddenly difficult it was to speak, like trying to force a lion into the den of a mouse. The weight of her grief and sorrow threatened to pull her into the comforting dark of the water, away from the world and the horrors it was keen to lavish upon the disheartened, but there were strong arms around her keeping her anchored there where she was needed.

Turning her gaze away from the clouded sky, she slowly traced the wet, raised shape of a raven’s footprint on Diaval’s chest, and then the thorny, feathered markings at his collarbone. 

When they finally spoke, it was together and at once.

“There’s something I …”

“Maleficent, there’s something I …”

“ … need to tell you.”

They paused, watching each other. Maleficent leaned up away from his shoulder, though kept her hand upon his chest, watching him with such enormous sadness that his concern quickly took precedence over everything else. With his hand coming to rest over hers, he stared at her with an inquisitive worry, his handsome features creasing with it.

“You first,” he insisted gently. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Maleficent took a steadying breath, fighting the heaviness of sorrow settling in her heart.

“I wanted to talk with you before I address the court today. You need to know everything.” She stopped, meeting his gaze, and her throat tightened so fiercely that it was a struggle to even speak. “Merin is dead, Diaval. I found her yesterday morning.”

Finally saying it aloud only made the reality of it all the more awful. There was a finality in those words as she spoke them. Yes, Merin was gone, and no, she was never coming back, no matter that they had both only seen her the day before yesterday, and that she had been in full health. It just wasn’t right. Nobody should have been able to just … go, and so quickly.

Yet, that was the reality. There was no time for goodbyes, or for apologies. There was no time to prepare. One moment Merin had been there, and now she was gone, walking planes that Maleficent could not venture to.

She felt tears build in her eyes. The terrible feelings swarming within her sought to explode, and it was too easy now that she was in the embrace of her mate, the only one who could ever see her in such a way. As much as she tried her best to restrain the sob that burst out of her unbidden, she was doomed to fail. She hated it. She hated crying, hated having her emotions so available for others to see, but the death of a friend and the weight of the crumbling pieces of the world around them was too much.

Diaval’s arms were unyielding around her, holding her close. She had not seen his reaction, though imagined that he, too, was devastated, given that Merin was one of the first of the Dark Fae to accept him among them. Merin had been the one to marry them together in the Godsong Grove, when it had truly felt as though all that could follow was peace and prosperity after so much pain. The elder had tied the ribbon around their hands and blessed their love in the sights of the Moors.

And she had tried to protect them, too, but had paid for it with her life.

“I’m sorry,” Diaval rasped near her ear, tightening his hold. She heard the emotion in his voice, and could hardly bear to think that the bad news she’d arrived with was not over. “How, Maleficent? I … that’s …” He trailed off, disbelief sounding hoarsely in his voice. 

Just about able to collect herself, the faerie sat up and moved her hands to her mate’s face, holding it so that he could not look away - not that he seemed inclined to, staring at her with wild confusion and anger and sadness. She held him firmly, trying to recover so that she might speak with clarity.

Maleficent’s voice caught subtly in her throat. 

“It was the ravens.”

Diaval just continued to stare at her, though there was a light in his eyes that seemed to flicker off as soon realisation dawned. His lips slackened.

“What?” 

“The ravens did it, though not willingly, I’m sure. I fear something awful has overtaken them. I found her by the sea. The nature of the injuries and their presence there would suggest …” Maleficent stopped, then, not willing to relive the horror of what she had seen. “You were right about the fairy ring. The entire ancestral forest is swallowed by the darkness she said was creeping into the Moors. I went into the ring, Diaval, and I found out who is behind it all.”

Diaval swallowed, seeming to have lost the ability to speak. There was a dreadful numbness to his countenance as he waited for her to continue, though she could feel the fearful pounding of his heart alongside hers. 

“Mori’ka never left our world. He has become a demonic creature, Diaval. A spirit whose power is turned to evil. I’m not sure for how long it has been this way, but he was the one who led danger to the nest of the Phoenix by sowing discord among the humans. She sealed him into the emerald so that his soul could never break free. Now, he is free to gain his strength and spread his hate. He is the one behind the destruction the humans have faced over the centuries. He must be behind the Feth Fiadha. And I’m sure …” Maleficent paused, laden with sorrow. “I’m sure he was likely the shadow guiding the Moon Witch, whether she realised it or not.”

Watching Diaval carefully, she could see a thousand pieces of information clicking together in some semblance of sense. He lowered her hands and looked away, losing his breath, and brought his palm up to his forehead, eyes moving frantically as the truth was reluctantly absorbed. 

“O-oh,” he said, and he actually laughed, though the sound was truly without joy. “He was behind it all. He’s been pullin’ the strings from where no one can see him. And he had the gall to call this a blessin’? I knew somethin’ was wrong, that’s what I was gonna tell you, but … Oh, it’s so obvious! He brought my soul back just so he could use me, like he’s usin’ those other ravens!” His hand ran down his face, then, and he sagged in utter devastation. “Oh, my god. Merin knew somethin’ wasn’t right.”

“She did. She was careful to impart the history of the Phoenix and the Otherworld so that I might come to grips with its magic.”

“Then …” Diaval looked at her with a degree of desperate hope, then. “Could you take this power of his out of me? I don’t care about bein’ able to shapeshift on my own, not if it means I might be a danger to the Moors, Maleficent. I’m really just a raven, just like they are, an’ look what they’ve done. They’ve gone and killed Merin. I can’t … Whatever it was he gave me, it needs to be gone.”

“I don’t know, Diaval. I’d rather not risk it until I know what it entails. I do not know how to manipulate Otherworld magic.”

Her mate backed down at once, taking her hand back into his. Despite all he had heard, a warmth re-emerged in his soft eyes, and he inclined his head respectfully towards her.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry about Merin. I know what she meant to you.” When he raised his head again, he gingerly brought her back into an embrace, rubbing his cheek gently against hers in that affectionate, raven-like way of his. “It’s just us two here, apart from a few eavesdroppin’ sprites. It’s gonna be alright.”

Maleficent was stiff at first, reluctant to sink into the warmth of his hold, but she relented not a moment later. Her wings moved in to shield them from any small, prying eyes that might have been aimed in their direction, and she held Diaval close in turn, thankful for the comfort that he offered. As always, his presence incited a certain clarity of thought. Hope, even. They were lucky enough to still be alive, and they had the ability to make things right.

Beneath the dark water, they held hands, and she could feel the metal of the ring around his finger. Their souls were bound and so they carried the weight of each other’s sorrows and pains, and for that reason, the dangers of the world felt that much easier to face. 

“Diaval,” the faerie said some time later, just as the sky was beginning to lighten and the snowfall was ceasing. “I need to tell the Moors the truth about the matter. It’s important we all understand just what we are facing.”

Diaval was silent for a time, undoubtedly understanding what it was she really meant. 

_I need to tell them that the ravens murdered Merin. I need them to be cautious of Mori’ka’s demonic influence, not just in the Moors but in you, too._

“They deserve the truth,” he responded, a devastating lifelessness to the way he said those words. “It’s the right thing to do.”

The snow eventually stopped, but the dull clouds lingering did not seem any closer to parting and freeing the light of a new day.

* * *

It went down just as they’d expected. For the most part.

Diaval made sure to remain a firm presence by Aurora’s side despite the information coming to light there in court. Maleficent was stood upon the grassy dais before the throne, addressing the fairies gathered in small crowds before her. Aurora was upon the throne, but he could not see her face to ascertain just how she might have been feeling about it all. Regardless, he put a hand on her shoulder when the news of Merin’s death was relayed, and he felt the tension therein.

When Maleficent was done, the fairies gazed at her with abject shock. The three Dark Fae leaders in particular. 

Diaval did not look at them much longer. He turned his gaze to the sky, because he could feel that there were eyes upon him and did not want to see anything close to fear or suspicion among them, so it was much easier to just look away and avoid the attention while the news settled. 

Maleficent had done a remarkable job at informing the others, just as poised and elegant as she always was, not betraying a moment of her inner turmoil. But Diaval could hear it. He could see it in the slope of her shoulders when she straightened herself in preparation to speak again. 

He could see it in the Dark Fae, who audibly mourned the loss of a leader and ally.

He really didn’t know what to feel. About anything.

He was relieved that Aurora was back and unharmed. He was in grief and shock over the loss of Merin, a staunch and trusted family friend. He was in despair over the revelation that maybe the humans had not been as wrong about him as he’d thought, and he truly feared what such a thing might mean, not only for himself but for his family, too. The Moors, as well, who would no doubt look at him in a different light, because he wasn’t just Diaval anymore. He wasn’t just a raven. He didn’t really know what he was. Some sort of unwilling extension of Mori’ka’s power and just demonic enough to be worth fearing.

The weight of it all was crushing, though the thoughts spiralled and tumbled about his mind, never truly able to find purchase. It was dizzying. The result was something of a numb, horribly empty feeling that defied everything else and overwhelmed the sanctity of his conscience. As much as he wanted to find a tree to sit in and try to put order and semblance to his thoughts, he could not; despite his current reputation, he was still something of a big deal in Aurora’s court and he wasn’t about to let anyone else forget it.

More importantly, he wanted to be there for Aurora and Maleficent, who were struggling with sorrows of their own. 

Taking his hand from Aurora’s shoulder, he glanced briefly down at her and found her staring straight ahead, lost in a world of her own thoughts. Ahead, Maleficent began to address the gathering of fairies again.

“Borra, Shrike, Udo. I asked you to bring the treasures of your clans here,” she called firmly.

At once, the three faeries moved to stand before her. Indeed, in their hands they held the strange artefacts that Diaval recognised as the ones once guarded by stone statues on the ancestral island. The very weapons that the humans had been so worried about in the first place. He felt a twinge of panic upon seeing them, the thought crossing his mind that Maleficent might have actually planned to _use_ them.

“I bring and offer the Owl’s Eye, Phoenix,” said Udo, holding forth a great, shining chunk of amber.

“I bring the Spine,” Shrike proclaimed, and she held the ornate, ancient dagger in her hands aloft.

“And I bring the Death Rattle,” Borra finished with an arrogant pride, holding up a dusty human skull so that all present could see it. “What purpose will the treasures of our people serve the Phoenix this day? I say we banish the evil in the Moors once and for all and take revenge for our fallen sister.”

Maleficent silently regarded the items. Opening her hand, she summoned her staff to her.

Diaval couldn’t help but step forwards, his panic rising.

“Maleficent -“ he began, but she silenced him with a gesture of her hand.

“I do not intend to use them,” she announced clearly. “I assure you all that they will be of far more use to us when they are broken.”

Relief stayed Diaval’s panic, then, and he stepped back beside the throne. Thankfully, it seemed as though the clan leaders were just as clueless as he was, watching as the esteemed Guardian of the Moors raised her staff and allowed an influx of both green and gold magic to crawl up its dark length. 

“We grieve for Merin this day. We shall celebrate her long life and service to her people, but first we shall honour the path from which she was so cruelly torn. That of the truth.”

There were three blinding flashes of green light as magic clawed suddenly through the ancient artefacts. Just like that, the treasures crumbled uselessly out of the hands of those who had protected them.

Nobody seemed to know what to think about that. Fairies looked at each other with apparent confusion, though the Dark Fae were caught in apparent shock. Diaval could understand it for the most part; they had safeguarded those mysterious weapons for thousands of years, and the theft of the Phoenix Emerald had caused such a fuss it had turned Maleficent’s attention away from the Moors for some time. And yet, she now destroyed them as though they meant nothing to her or to her people.

Each of the clan leaders stared blankly down at the broken fragments at their feet. In other circumstances, Diaval would have been highly amused by the looks on their faces. As it were, he was just as surprised as they, though felt an enormous sort of pride towards Maleficent in response to it all: the treasures might have been useful in their own ways, but they were still dangerous and easily corrupted the minds of young, impressionable, and hurting fae that stumbled across them.

There could not be another Wynne.

However, it seemed that was not the sole reason for their destruction.

Nothing happened at first, though there did come a strange, distinct feeling to the air, as though there was a sudden presence of enormous amounts of magic flowing about the castle. It was an unnerving feeling. Diaval recalled feeling such a way around stone rings, in ancient places like the Godsong Grove, and at the time of Wynne’s trial when she had looked at the Moon and it had seemed to look right back at her. It was that feeling of being watched by something Other, something that could not be seen and never made its intentions known. A mystery that breathed as though it was the very lungs of the Moors.

And that breath came in the form of a dark, warm wind, which began to swirl among the trees and the fairies. The smallest of the fairies were quite shocked to find themselves being swept up in invisible cyclones and spat out again, though the wind caught them before they could fall and placed them gently down onto the ground.

Just as the gusts that came with Diaval’s transformations moved the leaves and the feathers upon the earth, so too did this unfamiliar presence, though manipulated the elements differently. One of the small cyclones seemed to favour the snow and the ice. Another took to the sunshine and the dust. The other carried flowers and raindrops. 

Aurora stood up from her throne, watching the strange magic unfold with awe. Diaval did not move from her side for an instant, just in case things went awry. He’d already figured out what was going on, what Maleficent’s intentions were, and he remained as cautious as he was hopeful about the matter. 

And just as Diaval’s shapes emerged from dead leaves and shadows, the other three púca took form within the unnatural gusts so that they might finally look upon their descendants with their own eyes.

They took the form of birds, as was expected. The first to emerge was an enormous snowy owl, one that was at least a Diaval-and-a-half tall. The creature stepped elegantly into the Moors and ruffled its feathers as though it was mildly inconvenienced, looking about itself with giant, yellow eyes. The second was a marvellously coloured macaw, similar in size, and it clicked its hook-like beak animatedly, immediately setting about scratching the ruff of its neck with ferocious claws. The third and final was the largest of them, a vulture with enormous, hunched wings, tawny feathers, and an impressive crest upon its head. 

At once, the Dark Fae respectfully fell to their knees, staring up at the sudden manifestations of their forefathers with all the shock one might expect. 

Maleficent was the only one of them not to bow down. When three pairs of terrifying, wild eyes came to settle on her, she raised her head and beheld them, her fingers tightly gripping her staff. 

Diaval felt just as wary. His more raven instincts were near enough flying off the handle, telling him to fluff up his feathers, look bigger, and make scary noises at them until they found him the most dominant bird out of them all, but the human side of his mind was quick to jump in and remind the raven that those three birds could very easily tear him apart. 

Any worry, however, was alleviated when the three shapeshifters spread their great wings and bowed before Maleficent. They knew who she was. They respected her, even if her ancestor had apparently stuffed them all into those little objects in the hopes of quashing evil before it could arise. 

“Ah! Hoo! Gracious! It’s good to spread my wings again!” The snowy owl proclaimed, flapping his wings about a bit with another hoot of relief. “Wonderful! And look at all of my beautiful children! They look just like me!”

“Except that you’re an owl and they’re not! Squark!” The macaw said, and he filled the entire court with hacking laughter, bobbing his head in time with it. “My children are the most beautiful of all. Look at all the colours on their wings!”

The vulture snapped his beak at that, squaring up to the macaw with an angry gleam to his golden eyes.

“CARGH! Silence, beast! My children are the most capable! Camouflage is more important than strutting one’s stuff about the trees!”

“Oh, blah, blah! You sing the same old song after thousands of years of being trapped in a rancid skull! The jungle is filled with colour, unlike your miserable deserts!”

“Hoowhat?! Neither terrain compares with the beauty of tundra and mountains, and - oh! I fear we are quite forgettin’ ourselves, dears!” The snowy owl tutted and walked over to Maleficent, swivelling his head a few times to get a good look at all the fairies. Perhaps taking advantage of the stunned silence capturing them all, he continued, “Marvellous! We are the great púca of All Lands Far and Wide. We might have been trapped in those awful little cosmic pockets for far, _far_ too long, but we are not unaware of happenings in the Moors! The trees were kind enough to tell us most things, and sometimes we could see through the eyes of our servants, too. We called you to the fairy ring so that you would see the truth, dear Phoenix!”

“And all the times you could have shown me the truth, you did not,” Maleficent said shrewdly.

“Well, of course not! The fairy rings across the Moors have been closed for millennia, and rightfully so, to keep the Otherworld and the world of men separate. It’s only now they’re needed that they’re opening again! This land is a friend to you, you know. It’s a living, breathing entity, and it is trying to talk to you through the rings so that you can best the evil that is plaguing it like some horrible little cockroach.” The owl dramatically flapped his wings at that. “You can learn to listen, Phoenix, oh aye! Now that we are here to guide you.”

“My name is Maleficent,” the faerie said at once, and then she stepped aside to gesture towards Aurora, who was still standing before the throne in silence. “This is my daughter, Queen Aurora of the Moors. You should address her with the same respect you address me.”

“She doesn’t _look_ like a faerie,” said the vulture as he prowled forwards, his eyes narrowing. 

“How do you know what a faerie should look like, bonesucker? You’ve been trapped in a skull!” The macaw shouted, then proceeded to laugh again, his head bouncing in jovial fashion. Arriving before the dais, he bowed dutifully towards the queen, and the others followed suit.

Finding the attention of the entities on her, Aurora momentarily did not seem to know what to do. She drifted forwards and curtseyed gracefully, minding her manners no matter the strange circumstance.

“How do you do?” She asked them politely, a smile in her voice. 

“Oho! Hoo, she is a chip off the old block,” the owl squawked, rubbing at his eye with a wing in a sudden show of emotion.

The vulture rolled his eyes at that and hunched his wings defensively up by his neck.

“She isn’t your child, you orb-headed buffoon. Cargh! She is clearly of man’s brood and adopted by Maleficent! Didn’t the trees tell you that part?”

“Well, mine took particular offence when an owl left its droppings all down its trunk, so perhaps it omitted it! All the more, trees are very unreliable narrators. It takes them a week to tell a ten minute tale.”

“Just as it takes you a week to get to the point!” The macaw interceded. “Maleficent, thank you for freeing us from our prison. We are the protectors of the terrains we originate from. We are guides to animals and men. For freeing us, we will answer all the questions you need answered to restore balance to the Moors, seeing as _your_ resident púca has, well! Turned to evil.”

“Not entirely,” Aurora said unsurely. Turning a bit, she gestured for Diaval to come forwards.

It took him a moment, but he moved towards her and took her hand when she offered it. It was strange and just a bit intimidating when the shapeshifters looked at _him,_ because he knew well enough what they could probably see. When the owl approached to get a better look at him, he scowled at the uninvited proximity, but said nothing. 

“Hm. Indeed. Yes. I thought that was you skulking back there.” The owl moved his head this way and that, sizing Diaval up with marked interest. “A bit tall for a common raven, and positively ancient.”

“Look who’s talkin’!” Diaval responded before he could think better of it. 

“Ah, hm … hoo! There we are. I see it now. Oh, dear. Oh, dearie dear. It seems our wonderful brother made sure he was not going to be _replaced_ any time soon by refusing to move on to the Otherworld. You, friend, would have made a remarkable replacement if he had not laid claim to your soul, first.”

Feeling a prickle of discomfort at that, Diaval stared at the owl spirit in utter confusion.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, indeed. You are a raven of merit with a good heart. I am sure he saw that in you, too, and feared the gods had sent the one meant to take his place, not only as a púca but as the Phoenix’s prime consort. He always did have trouble moving north when things went south, if you catch my drift.”

“But he gave me the ability to shapeshift,” Diaval continued, feeling more than a bit muddled.

“I fear there is rather more to it than that. Don’t you remember anything of your time in the Otherworld? It was the only time he could have performed the ritual!”

“I … what?” Running a hand back through his hair, Diaval shook his head, dread seeping into his gut. He really, really hated that nearly the entire population of the Moors was present to hear the conversation and whatever awful revelation was about to come next.

He thought he remembered his time in the Otherworld clearly. There was the black veil, and then … the Feth Fiadha, the mist that ensnared the land of the dead. There was green fire on torches lighting tall, dark passageways to nowhere, and when he eventually found his way through … nothing. There were creatures, spirits, but that was all he remembered. He could not remember the realm itself, and had assumed he had simply been pulled back out before he could really see what it looked like.

“Ritual?” Maleficent cut in, wearing an expression of thunder.

“Yes, the partial soul exchange. Such a thing would have been necessary to give such an enormous portion of his power. Think of it, hmm … hoo! Think of it like a delicious pie! He cut out a slice of your pie and replaced it with his own, only his chunk is bigger and has a different sort of filling and doesn’t quite fit right. Do you understand? And he’s taken _your_ slice and turned it into something he can use. A dreadful sort of wraith called a fetch. The part of you that never returned to life, Diaval, and now flies around as an omen, a harbinger of death. A servant to Mori’ka’s wicked intentions!”

The owl relayed the the information like one who took particular delight in telling spooky stories, using his wings and feathers for dramatic effect. Perhaps millennia trapped in a piece of amber had blinded him to the true horror of his words and the story he told, now. 

It was something of a metaphysical punch to the gut. So much so that Diaval forgot how to speak or how to even move. All he could hear was a ringing in his ears. He was brought back to a time that he had nearly successfully forced out of his memory, one where he was sat in a nest that was not his own, numb to a near tearing apart of his body and forced to relinquish something he had not wanted to give. He remembered it as well as if he were reliving that awful moment.

He may as well have been naked, vulnerable, there for the entire Moors to see. They had witnessed it for themselves, all the things that were taken from him, all the things he had been forced to do on the whims of an evil spirit. They knew what the white raven was, now, and he had acknowledged it too, somewhere deep in his mind. They knew what _he_ was, even if that thing did not really have a word. It meant he was brought back for the sole purpose of … what? 

Being the hand of a demon in a world that reviled them? Serving as an evil the humans knew existed but did not understand? Perhaps to be ample enough distraction that the humans did not look to where the _real_ danger was?

To be Mori’ka’s replacement, but not in a way that fate might have intended, if it was meant to be his fate at all.

It was by design that he was being blamed for the poisoning of King John. Perhaps, too, it was why the ravens were made responsible for the murder of Merin. There was a spirit sowing chaos from places unseen and no matter how hard Diaval tried to help and guide the Moors to a better future, he would always be something that humans and fairies and animals alike could fear. He was a danger to them, and always would be for as long as Mori’ka wanted to exact his revenge.

And it shattered his heart to know it.

There were hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. Thousands. People were speaking, but he could not hear them past the ringing in his ears, nor concentrate past the vacant fuzziness that occupied his mind.

The ruins of a once magnificent castle touched the sky just behind him. He wanted to disappear into it, but his feet remained firmly rooted where they were, and something was stopping him from letting go of Aurora’s hand despite not wanting to hear anymore of what the spirits had to impart.

He understood enough. 


	11. Breaking Ties

The rest of the day was dedicated to the celebration of Merin.

Her body was not placed in the tomb-bloom fields (mostly empty, still, given that the precious flowers were stolen by humans those years ago). Instead, her body was cremated unseen on the ancestral isle and the ashes were scattered in the dark, ancient woods the faerie had protected for so long. Diaval, Maleficent, and the clan leaders were there to observe, watching in silence as the magic-imbued ashes immediately brought colourful flowers and plants to life there in the undergrowth.

Diaval lowered his head, his heart laden with sorrow. Beside him, Maleficent was taut and silent. Despite her tendency to rebuff public displays of affection, he did gingerly bring an arm around her waist in an attempt to comfort her during the time of mourning. 

His heart broke for her, it truly did. He missed Merin and her coarse, blunt ways a great deal. If she was there, she probably would have been shaking that staff of hers in their direction, threatening them to hit them all with it if they didn’t move on away from the haunted place, and the thought - for some reason - served to provide him a little comfort and amusement, but he did not share such a vision with Maleficent yet. She was grieving the closest thing she’d had to family among the Dark Fae, and he respected the silence of her thoughts.

Inwardly, he was glad when it was time to leave and go home. The seemingly cursed nature of the place was leaving him with a cold feeling. Though he had not seen another raven since arriving, he could certainly feel their presence there, and heard the occasional ruffle of feathers up there in the dark, crooked trees. It made him extremely uncomfortable to be in the vicinity of those that had, willingly or not, taken the life of a friend, and it made him feel even worse to know that they were his kin. Some of them of his own blood, no doubt. He did not want to come face-to-face with any of them, for he feared what he might see in their eyes if he did.

The other Dark Fae flew away when dusk began to fall. Before following, Maleficent drifted towards a cluster of those magical, blooming flowers that Merin’s ashes had created within the darkness. Gently did she reach forth and touch at the golden petals, caressing them as though she might have caressed the cheek of a loved one - and then quickly pulled her hand back when that glittering magic drained from some of the flowers and entered _her,_ instead.

The magic lingered there a moment, glowing beneath her skin, and then travelled upwards along the length of her arm and disappeared.

Maleficent seemed distraught by that. She stared at her hand, slowly turning it about in shock.

“What was that?” Diaval asked quietly, crouching down beside her. 

“I’m not sure. It feels as though I … took something from them. It was an accident.”

“You didn’t take anythin’.” Putting a hand on her arm, he gave it a reassuring little rub, and cast a nervous gaze about the trees overhead. “It was given. Just like Connall. There’s that piece of her inside you, now, there to stay.”

With that, Maleficent lowered her hand and touched the earth, paying her respects once more before she finally stood and walked away. Whatever it was she might have been thinking, she did not seem keen to share just yet, though her pain was clear enough in her eyes.

They flew back to their nest as night dawned. 

Diaval and Maleficent coexisted in silence for some time. To try and take his mind of things, which felt to be a near impossible task given all he had to think and worry about, Diaval sat against one of the walls and resumed his project of constructing a nest for the little ones to sleep in when they were born. By the candlelight, he wove bendy sticks and a mixture of his and Maleficent’s feathers, trying to bring to life his vision of a cradle of sorts. 

It was almost done. Placing it down on the ground, he held the rim of the little nest and imagined two winged baby girls within, both of them giggling at a mobile of softened, glittering glass. He smiled, rocking the edge of the unfinished nest a little, just as he had rocked Aurora’s crib every night for months to send her off to sleep.

Maleficent was watching him from the mouth of the cave. He could feel her gaze burning into him, where moments ago it had instead been cast unto the unsuspecting river churning far below. Glancing up at her, he found a rare tenderness upon her face, and wondered if she was sharing in his idyllic vision of the future.

Then, she frowned and turned away again.

Diaval felt his heart sink. Perhaps she was sharing in his worries, too. In the uncertain nature of the future, everything that they had recently learnt and what it really meant. He was truly doing his utmost to hold it together despite the agonising revelations that had come to light that day, but now more than ever, it felt as though his thoughts were being barely contained by single, strained thread of hope. There was so much to do, so much to worry about, but his concerns remained unspoken, as though giving them breath would only make them real.

And so those thoughts festered, churning in his gut like a witch’s concoction and making him feel sick.

Covering the little nest with a blanket, he then undressed and climbed into the larger one nearby to wrap himself in a cocoon of more blankets and furs. A short while later, Maleficent joined him, elegantly lowering herself down beside him and making herself comfortable. Diaval rolled to face her and found those startling, beautiful eyes upon him once more, shining from beneath the shadow of a wing.

It was like she was trying to see through him.

Diaval looked at the roof of the cave, instead, then closed his eyes, filling the darkness with visions of dark-haired fledgelings and Aurora and the radiant smile of their mother as they played happily among the flowers of the Moors. Fairies fluttered joyfully about the trees. A pleasant and wonderful vision that served to banish the ache, if but for a time. What he chose to see was everything that he was fighting for, and that vision soon fell into a dream.

* * *

But the snow began to fall. It was cold, and the sky turned dark. Ice crawled up the lengths of the tree trunks and frost sparkled on the grass and flowers. Aurora and the fledgelings disappeared into the waiting darkness of the forest, and Maleficent was soon to follow, not turning to look for him even once. Diaval was left alone, cold and disorientated, and before his very eyes the woods shifted to resemble not those of the Moors but those of Wickpon, instead, where the snow gathered in mounds and the icy blue eyes of wolves surrounded and watched him.

He fled into the forest, searching desperately for his family, but they were gone. He found only the company of ravens, their dark forms still up there in the crowns of the trees, watching him in silence and following as he continued to run, searching for any sign that his family was safe. It was all that mattered, but he could not fight the hurt that lingered, either. They’d left him. Maleficent had left him. She had everything that she needed - what did it matter what happened to him in that forest? 

Whether or not it was for the best, it was still agonising. The betrayal of it settled deep in his heart, burying and twisting into it like a dagger of ice. The longer he ran, the worse the pain became, so terrible that it was truly maddening, distorting his thoughts and his very being until all that could be left was a shadowed husk of his former glory.

He loved fiercely. It was eternal within him. It was his greatest strength, that unquestionable love of his, but perhaps it was also his greatest weakness. It was love rending his mind into shattered pieces, love that tore his bitter spirit into fragments that would haunt the woods like will-o’-the-wisps, guiding lost souls to safety or to their demise. Such was his power.

He ran past the giant, stone guardians that sat deep in the forest of Wickpon. A fairy ring. He ran until he found a crumbling pyramid, a stone raven from whose mouth fell the steaming source of the river. Approaching the stream flanking the ancient monument, he peered into its clear, trickling depths, and found there a reflection that was not his own. He was a walking portrait, a haunted beauty, with hair as dark as night and eyes of fire. Blood was splattered across his pale, rage-filled face.

The creature he saw in the water screamed into the night. The unearthly din threatened to rip the very sky apart. The ground shook beneath his feet, changing and shifting as easily as he did, until the forest was gone and he was surrounded by tall, black walls lit by torches of green fire. There were passages to nowhere all around, falling into darkness or leading to a green mist that smelt of rotting seaweed. He was suddenly so scared. So alone. Where was he? _Who_ was he? The last thing he remembered seeing was … not the forest, not the tormented reflection, but Maleficent’s tear-filled eyes. His body and his soul had hurt so much, though that pain felt to be an echo somewhere deep within him, now.

Maybe she hadn’t left him after all. Maybe she was there somewhere in the darkness, waiting for him. What had he done? He couldn’t hurt her like this. She had seen enough hurt in her life. He was supposed to look after her. To love her in ways she had never known. Who was he to instead bring her this pain?

But he wasn’t alone there in that dank labyrinth of green fire and ghouls. He was trying to find his way back to the black veil and back into Maleficent’s arms. There was a way he could reverse the coldness and stillness of his heart, he just knew it! He wouldn’t leave her in that world alone! And - there, hovering beneath a crooked statue of a raven, was a formless mass of black magic. Some sort of ghost, perhaps. There was a lantern floating in front of it, held aloft by invisible claws, glowing with a cool blue light that felt far safer than anything else there in those halls. 

The lantern began to drift slowly from side to side. Welcoming. Hypnotising. Maybe this was a thing that could put an end to the pain. Maybe it could show him the way back to Maleficent.

A flash of white, and then all fell dark.

Gradually, he awoke to a cool hand on his upper back. Eyes fluttering open, he found himself on his front, tangled up in furs and blankets. The pain was back again. Every inch of his body ached, as did his pounding heart, and he suddenly felt so tired that he could barely move.

Diaval shifted slowly onto his side and saw Maleficent still watching him in the darkness, something strange about her gaze. Unsure how to react when she rolled him onto his back and slid a leg across his waist, he laid still and watched her rise to sit atop him, his heart pounding and breath coming in short spurts as he emerged from the terrifying nature of his dream.

It was difficult to focus. Maleficent was beautiful above him but being oddly demanding, forcibly unwrapping him from the blankets before he could really think about what was happening. Her touch left trails of icy cold across his heated skin. He tried to take hold of her wrists to slow her down, but every attempt only made her more irate and she snatched her fists away. 

He realised what was different. Her eyes were blue.

Diaval froze with fear. 

No. Not here. Not in his and Maleficent’s own nest. Where was his mate? This wasn’t her, this was … it had to be -

And behind her, there was that shapeless entity of swirling black mist. It simply floated there in silence, holding its lantern aloft, watching and doing nothing to help no matter how Diaval stared beseechingly at it.

“Let me go,” he begged, trying to fight the manifestation of Wynne off and away from him, but she was too strong. Desperate and sick with fear, he knew that all was lost; if he carried on fighting, she would transform him as cruelly as she could, bending him out of shape and putting him back together for her own nefarious delight. He couldn’t endure that again, never again, _please_ not again -

“Diaval.” 

Wynne was holding something in her black talons. A chalice. He could not see what was inside it, but he could take an educated guess. Horror chilled his very bones as he gazed up at it, a deep and instinctive panic immediately kicking in. He could not stare defiantly up at Wynne like he could the humans, because Wynne was a being that truly terrified him to the very core, and he was locked in his fear like a rat caught in a trap, held firm but desperately struggling to get out.

“No, don’t! I didn’t - I DIDN’T DO ANYTHIN’ WRONG! I didn’t …”

“Diaval. Wake up.”

The water fell. Droplets shining with a pale, unfamiliar magic splashed across his skin, soon followed by what felt like torrents of lava claiming his entire body into its oozing, burning grasp. 

He fought to be free of it, shrieked out a plea for help, and by some miracle, it seemed that somebody was listening. At once, the raging heat devouring his form changed into a far more pleasant sort of warmth. It tingled through his limbs and travelled up his body, lingering in his chest to flutter reassuringly as all pains were numbed just enough that the darkness could finally fall in. Diaval stopped fighting and willingly succumbed to the peace of it, holding onto that warm, familiar presence as though he might never let go.

* * *

There was a lot that Maleficent did to restrain her anger.

It had become easier over the years. She was not as quick to lose her temper, especially with those who did not actually deserve to be at the receiving end of her ire. She was better able to control her magic, too, rather than let it be the vent of her rage. Following Aurora’s wedding and her own hand-fasting to Diaval, her greatest friend, she’d known a true happiness that had felt to be so steadfast and reliable, even when things had begun to take a turn for the worse.

Things had turned too far. 

Early that morning, the faerie flew from the nest after ensuring Diaval was in a deep, painless sleep. She flew past the castle and over the Forest of Dreams, green magic crackling between her fingers and bouncing between the crowns of the trees below, barely restrained. Perhaps it was a mistake to go to Ulstead before she’d had time to cool off - Diaval would certainly say so - but Diaval was not there to offer his advice and calming hand. He’d be far too placid about the matter, anyway. He’d insist that it wasn’t worth it.

Alone, Maleficent landed heavily down before the castle and proceeded to march towards it, using her magic to open the enormous doors before the guards even had a chance to. The men, though armoured to the gills, immediately shrank away from her and made no attempt to stop or question her, holding their poleaxes defensively to their chests.

They knew. Or they wouldn’t have been so frightened.

She looked in the throne room, first, though it was early enough the only people present were guards and some servants setting up the table for a small breakfast. Turning, she headed up the many staircases and grand halls until she reached the royal quarters. The guards outside the door there were a little braver, barring the way with their weapons, though with a single threatening glance from the faerie, they looked at each other and then quickly moved aside. Regardless of what they might have thought of her, she _was_ family, and also possessed the skill of healing.

The quarters were large, spacious, and far too lavishly decorated. There were one too many pairs of antlers mounted on the walls for Maleficent’s liking. Baring her fangs in a hiss, she stormed past the various rooms until she reached the royal bedchamber. 

In comparison to the large grandiosity of the chamber, King John looked remarkably small in that bed.

Maleficent gritted her teeth and managed to ease the aggression of her approach. Standing beside the bed, she stared down at the prone form of the king, inwardly debating.

The kingdom did not deserve such a kindness. For the sake of John and Phillip, the latter of which was watching in stunned silence from an armchair nearby, she relented and extended a hand. It was at first enveloped in green magic, responding to her unfathomable anger, but after a moment of intense concentration, the magic turned gold and trickled down into the body of the king.

His body glowed with it. Slowly, the greyish pallor of his skin returned to normal. John took a deep breath, mumbled something unintelligible, and then rolled over with a hefty snore-like grunt.

She turned and found Phillip standing by the chair, his eyes brimming with tears. In his arms, little Riordan was swaddled in a blanket, fast asleep.

“I … thank you,” the prince choked out, his charming features contorted with sheer relief. “ _Thank you,_ Maleficent. The doctor said he was mere hours from … You saved his life. Ulstead is in your debt.”

Maleficent regarded him in silence. Her anger was alleviated in wake of his relief, though only a little. Much of it still threatened to boil over in the form of magic, which still prickled at her fingers and danced about the dark feathers of her wings. 

Phillip, becoming aware of her rage, swiftly bowed his head in a gesture of gratitude. He was brave enough to hold his ground, however, facing the faerie dead-on not a moment later, his throat bobbing in a swallow. A single tear fell slowly down his cheek.

“I’m so sorry,” he said sincerely. Quietly, as not to wake his sleeping son. 

“I fear apologies will not help,” Maleficent retorted in a measured tone. “The relationship between the Moors and Ulstead has taken a significant step back. Aurora has been forced to remove every fairy that might have called this city home.”

“Yes,” Phillip said, briefly closing his eyes. Another tear fell to join the first. “Father will be heartbroken.”

“No representatives from the Moors will be coming here again. You can communicate by letter. No human from Ulstead will set foot in the Moors, either, save for yourself and the king. It shall remain this way until the unlikely event that your people can be trusted around fairies and those that represent their interests.”

Phillip made to speak, then, perhaps even to argue the matter, but fortunately he was wise enough not to do so. He looked tired. Very tired. It seemed he had not slept the entire while his father was ill, and it spoke of his compassion and good heart, so much so that Maleficent felt the faintest twinge of guilt somewhere deep within her. He was not to blame for what had happened. He was simply human, one of the few willing to take any sort of responsibility for the actions of his kind.

Maleficent felt the tempest of rage in her heart quell just slightly. Diaval would call such a thing a _fondness_ for the boy, an accusation which she would refute with a harsh glare - though it was true enough. She knew he was a good man and that he loved Aurora dearly.

“I trust the men responsible have been dealt with?” She pressed firmly, though managed to rein in the anger in her voice somewhat. “If Ulstead is in my debt, I would prefer it if those monsters met justice for what they did.”

“They are not imprisoned yet, but are due to be questioned and tried, Maleficent. They’re vital when it comes to finding and weeding out, er … undesirables among the palace guard.”

“Tried? Was what happened not evidence enough? What use is a trial, Phillip? They should be reprimanded at once.”

The prince took a steadying breath, though did not look away.

“It’s how things are done in human kingdoms. A person is brought before a judge and given an opportunity to defend themselves -“

“No.” Maleficent stared at him, incredulous. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “They tried to kill your own father-in-law. Why on earth do you think they should be given a chance to defend themselves? You know what they shall say. They’ll call _him_ the monster. They’ll say he gave them reason to attack him. In what world is this fair?”

“I …” Phillip struggled, rubbing at his forehead. Riordan stirred gently in the crook of his arm, so he quickly touched the boy’s cheek and shushed him back to sleep. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy trying to keep the kingdom going and investigating the matter of the poison, I haven’t had much chance to think of anything else. If it pleases you, I’ll preside over the trials myself.” He sighed, his gaze finally falling away. “I shan’t forgive myself for this. The Moors are family, and yet it seems we are doomed to spend our lives apart. Thank you for helping my father, Maleficent. Might you extend my thanks to Diaval, too, if he’ll hear it?”

“Of course he will,” Maleficent muttered darkly, “and he would insist that this is not your fault, I’m sure. I will accept your presence in these _trials_ of yours, but I do wonder what it will take for the Moorfolk to be considered true friends of Ulstead.”

“I don’t think they’re frightened of fairies, Maleficent. Not now. It’s their association with something they _are_ frightened of. My father and I love Diaval, you know that, but I think the incident with the holy water has sort of solidified the presence of, well … Diablo, in people’s minds. I know he hates that name.”

“For good reason.” The faerie paused, feeling an icy chill settle in her very bones as she came to truly acknowledge Phillip’s words. “Holy water? What damage could water possibly do?”

“Well, it … didn’t he tell you?” Phillip asked nervously.

That cold feeling settled even further.

“No.”

“Alright. I’m not entirely sure how it works. It’s water blessed by a priest or taken from a holy site. It banishes evil, supposedly, or maims the unholy.”

Maleficent stared, clenching her fists as anger arose to the fore once again. She didn’t understand, and that only made her even angrier. Surely any sort of magic that hurt a good person was in fact an evil magic in itself! Or was it a result of the supposed ritual that had tethered part of Mori’ka’s soul to Diaval’s? Did it mean Diaval, too, was affected by this mysterious water designed to repel evil? Whatever the case, the humans had actually dared _use_ it.

Thus, Maleficent felt her decision to keep the humans and fairies apart again was even more justified.

And it pained her. It truly did. While she did not trust or like humans with ease, she did like King John and Prince Phillip. Sort of.

And Aurora loved them. She loved Ulstead, but Ulstead had turned its back on her and the Moors. Worse, they had damaged the relationship the two kingdoms shared, perhaps beyond repair. Where once love and forgiveness had joined them together, they were fated once again to exist apart, all for the actions of a hateful few.

“I should take Riordan back with me,” Maleficent said, glancing at the precious, sleeping boy. “He will be safer in the Moors, away from -“

“His own kind?” Phillip boldly retorted, adjusting his hold about Riordan into something rather more protective. However, his gaze quickly turned beseeching. “Not this, Maleficent. He’s my son. I would die before I let anything happen to him. I am grateful for your help today, and I accept the steps you want to take to protect your people, but what happens with Riordan is a decision to be made between his parents. Have you discussed any of this business with Aurora?”

Staring longingly at the bundle in Phillip’s arms, Maleficent made to approach, then reluctantly thought better of it. The prince was … right, admittedly. There was a time she might have ignored him and stolen Riordan away to the Moors where he belonged, but she knew now what the devastating consequences would be. Phillip did not deserve that. Neither did Aurora. And indeed, Maleficent had served her time as a villain among men, and did not intend on pursuing such a reputation.

It was then she came to realise that her rage was, in truth, born of an enormous upset. She was deeply hurt by the events to have transpired, both for Aurora and Diaval’s sakes. They were denizens of the Moors and it was her job to protect them, and yet their lives and even their dreams were beset with horror. Why was it she only ever seemed to fail?

Her eyes turned hard. Turning abruptly, she headed for the door without so much as a second glance back to either John or Phillip.

“You can send a messenger with your letters. See to it that these would-be murderers are dealt with. Only then might I consider opening the Moors’ borders to your kingdom again.”

With that, she left, Phillip’s expression of sincere dismay fresh in her mind.

* * *

Meanwhile, Aurora was sat cross-legged on her throne, watching as tiny snowflakes swirled down from the pale skies above.

For breakfast that day, she’d had the pixies assemble a grand feast for the sake of the Dark Fae and fairies following Merin’s funeral the previous night. As well, she was hoping to welcome the púca with all the wonderful food after overhearing one of them complain loudly just how famished he was after those thousands of years locked away. She watched them enjoy themselves among their fae descendants, and she smiled. They were remarkable creatures, if a little trying at times with their constant bickering, but she was well practised in patience with such things given she had grown up around three similarly inclined pixies.

She’d left them to it for the most part, granting them time to get to know their families and the fairies. She watched them from her throne, pleased with the turn of events and happy that _they_ were happy, though a part of her did remain just a little bit intimidated, too. It wasn’t often she met spirits. In fact, the only one she was only ever aware of meeting was the Phoenix herself, risen from the ashes of Ingrith’s cruel attack. They were certainly different to what she might have expected a spirit to be.

She hoped to learn from them, if they’d care to impart their wisdom on a human. There were many, many questions afoot she suspected they could answer.

For now, she knew their names, at least, which really did help make them less, well … scary. Talking to birds nearly twice her own height and several times as wide was truly something of a fearsome experience.

The great snowy owl, who proclaimed himself to be the oldest and wisest of the shapeshifters, went by the name Fionnlagh. The macaw, who spoke often of his tenacity and beauty, was called Nagual. And finally, the terrifying vulture, who brazenly announced his ferocity and his wit, was called Impundulu. 

They ate rather a lot, grabbing mounds of fruit and meat with their claws and devouring it messily, much as birds tended to do. Aurora wondered if their tendency for bird-like behaviours was simply because of their current shapes, or whether it was because birds were their _original_ shapes. She favoured the latter idea, for she found it charming and familiar in that her own father was much the same, though he was admittedly becoming less and less bird-like as the years passed given the amount of time he spent in his human form. Still, such behaviours amused her to see.

Speaking of the devil, there came a frantic flapping of wings overhead and Diaval’s dark form appeared out of the low-lying clouds. He descended into court and transformed clumsily, slipping a bit on the frosty grass as he headed for the throne and waved to draw attention to himself.

“I’m here! I meant to come here first thing this mornin’, but I think your mother put a sleepin’ spell on me! I could hardly -“

Diaval suddenly skidded on the grass again and landed on his back with a great _thwump_ , much to the amusement of watching fairies. Spying the look of genuine surprise on his face, Aurora laughed and stood up to receive him - but somebody else got there before she did.

The snowy owl, Fionnlagh, hooted with deafening laughter and walked over to the fallen shapeshifter, who had apparently briefly forgotten that there was such a thing as gigantic owls with talons longer than his own hands. Wide-eyed, Diaval recoiled at once but found himself being picked up by the back of his coat and plopped back down on his feet. Then, his upper half fully disappeared into a shell of soft, white feathers when the púca yanked him into a jovial, bone-crunching embrace.

“Hoo! Good morning, brother! Mind the frost, won’t you?” Fionnlagh hooted, holding tightly onto the bundle of flailing limbs. “I’m not sure what you lot feed the mice here in the Moors, but they are delicious! Try one!”

“Ngh! I know what the mice taste like! Get - get off!” Diaval attempted, though was mostly muffled. “GET OFF!”

The púca released him at once, surprised. Diaval just grumbled something and brushed himself off before heading over to the throne to resume his usual place at Aurora’s side. He looked paler than usual and seemed a bit skittish, but Aurora was hardly surprised given the events as of late - and the admittedly disturbing news he had received only yesterday.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted with a little bow, then sat on the elaborate wooden armrest, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “Diamond. Don’t those things give you the willies? They’re terrifyin’. Look at ‘em.” He said this loudly enough that the shapeshifters might hear, and they shot him glares of mild affront as they continued devouring their breakfast. 

“Father,” Aurora said in warning, though not unkindly. “I think they’re beautiful! It’s just your raven instincts talking, isn’t it?”

“Hmph.” 

“Besides, I’m sure they have valuable information they could tell us once breakfast is over. Do you know where mother is?”

“She was gone when I woke up. Somethin’ came up, probably, as they do. I’ll relay everythin’ to her if she isn’t back soon.” With a small sigh, he nodded towards the feasting púca with a vague expression of concern. “They’ve made themselves right at home, haven’t they?”

Wondering whether it was sincere fear or the beginnings of jealousy in his tone, Aurora allowed a smile and bopped her head playfully against his side, doing her utmost to cheer him up. It did earn her a small smile in return, though it was short-lived as worry swiftly resumed.

“It’s alright,” the queen offered placatingly, her smile becoming gentler. “It’ll be alright. I believe they mean well. They’ve just been imprisoned for an awfully long time. I think that we really need spirits like them on side if we’re to end this conflict, don’t you?”

Diaval peered down at her, then relented not a moment later.

“Ah. You’re right. You really have that _look_ down, you know. The one you learnt from me, no doubt!”

“The kicked puppy look? Oh, yes. It really does work well with mother if used just right.”

“It does! The perfect angle, and even the lighting … it’s an art, y’know. I’m glad someone else finally appreciates it.” Diaval’s brow furrowed. “I can’t believe I just fell for it!”

Aurora beamed at that. Rising to her feet, she brought her father into an embrace when he followed her, resting her head gratefully on his shoulder. The poor raven was putting up with all sorts for the sake of the Moors. It wounded her to see him treated so unjustly, and it aggravated her that she had not been able to stop it.

“I love you,” she said firmly. “I’m so glad you’re alright. You don’t _have_ to be here if you’d rather be at home. What happened at the castle was …”

Despite the subject at hand, her father still managed to grace her with a small, crooked smile. He glanced about the court a moment, at the crumbling stone and the fairies all around, then back down at her.

“This is my home just as much as the nest is. I’m not goin’ anywhere. Besides, we have some interrogations to do, right? Even if the subjects are bird-men somehow even more terrifyin’ than I am.”

Aurora looked carefully at him a moment more, sighing lightly. Something told her he would find a way to stay even if she commanded that he left. She was grateful for his unending loyalty, however; the prospect of talking to the púca on her own made her rather nervous, given that she was only human.

She allowed breakfast to continue on for a while more, mostly so Diaval could eat his fill, too, overseeing the chaos that naturally unfolded whenever fairies got together for, well … just about anything. Overhead, the pixies were squabbling and creating miniature rainstorms over each other’s heads, and the ground shook with a tree warrior’s heavy footsteps as it chased Pinto the porcupine fairy around the outskirts of the castle. The present Dark Fae were loudly celebrating all around the court. Diaval, who usually would have been in the midst of the madness either preventing or encouraging it, chose to sit by Aurora’s throne and watch everything as carefully as she was.

Eventually, she moved down the grassy dais and made to address the feasting crowd.

“Fairies, I have -“ She paused, realising immediately she was not going to be heard. “I request an …” With something of a groan, she rubbed at her temples, then bellowed as loudly as she could - “QUIET!”

Everyone silenced at once, turning to face her. 

Behind, she heard Diaval snicker quietly, and she regarded him sternly before turning back to her court.

“I request an audience with the púca in the Forest of Waking. Please.”

Fionnlagh, who was stood among the tundra fae, looked sadly down at the clump of fickle fruit in his claws.

“Ah, yes, of course! Though … will the food still be here when we come back?”

“You’ve already eaten twice as much as the two of us!” Impundulu yelled, cupping his wings to his enormous beak as if to ensure he would be heard, though there was no real chance he wouldn’t. “ _You_ talk to the queen, you great wad of dandelion fluff!”

Nagual squawked loudly in response, wagging his long, colourful tail so hard that several fairies got knocked straight off their feet.

“Gnahahaha! Dandelion fluff! Dandelion fluff!”

“Well! I never! I thought thousands of years locked away might have instilled some maturity in you at long last, you cacklin’ _ingrates_.” With that, Fionnlagh raised a wing and directed blasts of icy magic towards his brothers, freezing their beaks shut with clumps of ice. “Aha! See how well you can feast, now! Hoo hoo!”

The other púca beat their wings in affront. Moments later, poor Fionnlagh was ensnared in a bundle of vines that rose from the ground like serpents, and then balls of sand conjured out of nowhere were thrown repeatedly into his face. Around them, the Dark Fae laughed and cheered on their respective spirit, and the court fell into chaos yet again.

Aurora watched in disbelief, partly amused but mostly dismayed. She ducked just as a melon was lobbed dangerously close to her head.

“Seein’ this, it’s no wonder Mori’ka turned evil,” Diaval joked darkly as he made his way to her side. He was less fortunate in that a piece of half-eaten fruit came at him out of nowhere and splatted directly onto his face. From there, it slid slowly down his cheek and plopped sadly to the ground. “Eurgh.”

“A little assistance, father?”

He bowed at once, and then began to transform. The resultant swirl of leaves and feathers around the court seemed to catch the attention of the púca, who stopped trying to strangle each other long enough that they might observe the transformation, their feathers dancing in the swirling wind. From the shadows emerged an enormous black lion, a grand creature of great strength and ferocity, and even the shapeshifters shrank back a little in wake of the thunderous roar it unleashed.

The silence that followed felt to be a true blessing. 

With a hand on the lion’s shoulder, Aurora announced:

“I appreciate that you are newly freed, dear púca, but I am the Queen of the Moors and I have requested your assistance. Fionnlagh, being the eldest, will you follow my father and I into the Forest of Waking?”

The owl’s yellow eyes were as round as full moons. Aurora wasn’t sure whether he was frightened or impressed by the enormous and formidable shape that Diaval had assumed. When the lion dropped down onto his belly, she quickly climbed up onto his back and surveyed the watching court a moment longer.

“And you’d all better behave yourselves while we’re gone!”

The fairies assumed their seats at once. Even the púca finally stopped fighting, though Fionnlagh was bold enough to blow a loud raspberry towards his brothers before disappearing in a swirl of snow and white magic.

Aurora found herself desperately wondering where her mother was. The court was far easier to control with her around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fionnlagh (fin-lay) is a Scottish Gaelic name meaning ‘white warrior’.
> 
> Nagual (na’wal) is the name for a shapeshifter in Mesoamerican culture.
> 
> Impundulu is a name of a legendary bird-like creature in South African culture that is said to be able to shapeshift. Also called the ‘lightning bird’.


	12. Next Position

“Where did he go?”

They’d been waiting in the Forest of Waking for several minutes having selected a small ruins among the towering trees to have their discussion. Aurora slid off Diaval’s back and walked about the mossy, broken walls, nervously adjusting the thick cloak around her shoulders. Her father remained close, prowling about bit and sniffing the air, and then finally transformed back into his man-shape if only to muster the most disapproving expression he possibly could.

“Vanished back into the aether, if we’re lucky,” he said, and Aurora felt a reluctant twinge of amusement at that. 

She peered over the top of a wall at him and waved a dying dandelion stem over his head as if it were a royal sceptre.

“I do decree that there are three púca and only one Diaval. My good Lord Chancellor is entirely irreplaceable and much beloved. Do you accept?”

Diaval’s hawkish look softened suitably at that. With a flourish of his hand, he bowed to her, though did regard her with a touch of suspicion moments later.

“I’m not _jealous_. I’m cautious. There’s a difference!”

“Oh! There isn’t even the slightest shred of jealousy, then?” Aurora teased, darting playfully around the other side of the wall, emulating the chasing game they would play together when she was a child. “Not at all?”

“That’s right!” Diaval declared. With his hands on his hips, he turned his nose up at her little game - albeit, not for long. Smirking, he moved quickly around the wall and chased the queen about the grassy ruins, much to her delight. 

They disturbed several fairies quite unintentionally as they ran about the place. Several clusters of moss fairies huffed atop the walls, and others of the dandelion kind dived out of the way to avoid their feet, sending tufts of glowing fluff up into the air and scattering around. Aurora’s laughter filled the space between the trees. Inwardly, she was glad to take both their minds off current events, if but for a few minutes. With a giggle, she dived into the forest and quickly hid behind a tree trunk, peering around it just enough to see her father looking around and scratching his head, pretending to have no idea where she went.

“Aurora! I’m really not as spritely as I used to be, y’know!” Turning, he tiptoed into the trees, smirking wickedly. “But my raven senses are as good as -“

“HOO HOO!”

“AAGH!”

There came a great _thud._ Diaval had jumped so high into the air it was as though he had gained wings for a split second, then stumbled and fell flat on his rear. Fionnagh, having appeared from absolutely nowhere, was hooting with raucous laughter, holding onto his belly with his wings.

Moving out from behind the tree, Aurora offered a rather disgruntled looking Diaval her hand, which he took and rose back to his feet with a glare flung in the púca’s direction. In other circumstances, she might have found the whole thing funny. As it were, her father looked just about ready to transform into something enormous and gobble Fionnlagh up whole, and she could hardly blame him. 

“It was kind of you to join us,” she said quickly, offering the white shapeshifter the slightest of curtseys. “I might ask that you’re a little more, um … Well, we’ve all endured some rather terrifying things, in the last few years, especially lately.”

“It’s not my fault he’s so on edge!” Fionnlagh hollered accusingly, and if an owl could pout, that was certainly what he did just then. “Oh, very well. My apologies!” With that, he hopped over to the ruins and fluttered up to perch on one of the walls, his massive and very unnerving yellow eyes settling on them. 

Aurora and Diaval followed, the latter far more reluctantly. He mumbled curses under his breath in a language that Aurora did not know, and she spared him a briefly sympathetic glance, reaching for his hand. She was made nervous by the presence of the spirit and could hardly imagine how Diaval must have been feeling about it all, given the things they were surely about to learn.

They regarded the creature in anxious silence, and he stared right back at them expectantly, appearing for all the world like a snowy owl that had just spotted prey rummaging about in the snow.

“Oh! Hoo, I see! This shape of mine makes you nervous! Especially _you_ , raven. I can see right through to your very soul, you know. This is your territory and it must feel as though we are invading! Fear not, we have no intention of layin’ claim to it! As for all the insecurities you’re projectin’ onto us, well, I can’t do a thing about that! You’ll just have to get over it.”

Aurora sighed. Beside her, Diaval straightened and released her hand in order to square up to the other shapeshifter, suddenly so overwhelmed with his inner raven-ness that he actually hopped closer and tried to make himself look as big as he possibly could. The queen could just imagine the look on her mother’s face if she was there to witness such a thing.

“I’m not projecting _anythin’_. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s perfectly natural! Now there are other males around that can do all the things you can do - and do it better, no doubt! You might be old for a raven but you’re a little wee baby compared to us, aren’t you?” Fionnlagh said matter-of-factly. He spoke in the manner of one who genuinely had no grasp over the impact of his own words and seemed to think he was actually helping by pointing these things out. “If not for that bit of Mori’ka’s soul, you _would_ just be a common raven.”

“Is that right?” Diaval said with an uncharacteristic snarl. “I don’t care. I’d give up this power and be a common raven again in an instant, actually. All I want is to be a good mate and father. Stuff shapeshifting! I didn’t ask for it. Things were good when Maleficent was the one turnin’ me into things. If you’re here to help us, you’ll pull this bit of his soul out of me.”

“Hm.” Fionnlagh backed off a bit at that, rubbing his beak thoughtfully. “Quite impossible, I’m afraid! Mori’ka was exposed to your raw soul and was able to manipulate it. I’d have to take your soul out of your body to even begin to fathom how to remove him, y’know! The process would kill this body of yours. He was always very clever, old Mori’ka.”

Aurora’s heart sank upon hearing the news. It sank even further when Diaval visibly sagged in wake of it. She worried about the implications of what it was she was learning about strange rituals and fragmented souls, though she did not entirely understand any of it. It turned out magic and spirits were a whole lot more complicated than she’d ever previously imagined, and she did fear what that meant for her father in particular.

Tactfully, she tried to think of a way to word her question as not to worry him too much.

“Such a small piece of soul can’t do much to another wholler one, can it?” She asked, forcing confidence into her voice.

And immediately regretted even thinking of such a question.

“Well … Mori’ka is without a physical form. His spiritual form will be gaining power now that he is free, however! Once he’s strong enough, he’ll be able to return to the Otherworld and make a new body. Meanwhile, he’s incubating until that time comes, partly in this angry raven here, but mostly in the body of Queen Orlaith. My advice would be to prevent him from getting strong enough to ever claim a body, ‘cause then he’ll be truly unstoppable!”

It was rather all too much information at once, which again, Fionnlagh could not seem to grasp as he relayed it. Aurora rubbed at her head as she tried to process it all. Queen Orlaith was … possessed, then? Controlled by the soul of a spirit-turned-demon, but why? As though reading her mind, Fionnlagh continued:

“The Veiled Queen is in a position of great power, see. Mori’ka came to despise humans. _Hated_ them, where once he was celebrated and beloved by them. I believe his intention is to sow discord among the human kingdoms by messing about with their politics. Indeed, it seems he is achievin’ his goal of bringin’ them to hate each other. While he doesn’t have the strength to destroy them, he _can_ make ‘em destroy themselves!”

“Queen Orlaith is dead,” Diaval cut in, turning to Aurora. “She was Ingrith’s sister, and she was a Red Druid, which means she was one of those rare magic humans and could control fire. She was murdered by her own people. It’s no wonder Mori’ka chose her body.” He frowned and shuddered slightly. “She died decades ago. Must be all skeleton-ish and crusty under that veil. Ugh.”

Aurora could hardly believe what she was hearing. It did take a moment, but she accepted the truth of it as calmly as she could. After all, it just shy of a month ago that she had seen the dead walking again and it hardly seemed a stretch at this point that Orlaith was the skeleton of a former royal, now wearing a crown. Controlled by an extremely vengeful spirit, too. Just how much of Orlaith was actually left?

It was almost disturbing, the ease with which Aurora came to believe it all. It was truly integral that she understood the dangers presenting themselves if the Moors were to _fight_ them. 

“Will you tell us about your brother, Fionnlagh?” She asked, a warmth to her voice despite the chill settling deep in her heart. “Will you tell us about Mori’ka? Why is he doing this? How do we stop him?”

The great owl spirit made a sad sort of hooting sound. For the first time, she saw what might have been a flicker of sadness in the yellow of his eyes, and she read something similar in his body language (given that she had grown up with a raven companion, it was not all too difficult to discern such things.) The spirit shook his wings and then held them out, a white, frosty magic swirling between his feathers.

Aurora turned as the magic passed her, and was amazed to find clusters of snow forming out of nowhere, scattering across the ground in waves or swirling about the trees. The pale, glittering magic began to create shapes with the snow, and the first one to emerge was a raven, wonderfully defined. It flew down from the trees before them and pecked diligently at the twigs on the earth.

“He began as we all did. A bird born of the ancient wilds. This was a time when the Otherworld and the world of men were more … eh, uniform. It was very easy to pass from one to the other! The wily thing would bring treasures from this world to the gods of Tir na Nog, the realm of paradise. They considered blessing him just as they had blessed us other three with the gift of sentience and shapeshifting. Alas! They thought a raven might prove too dangerous. Hence, the gods of Tech Duinn took Mori’ka to their realm of death and _they_ blessed him.”

The snowy apparition of the raven was joined by other, much larger figures, the most central of them being a robed man with a ram skull for a head, and a ghoulish woman with three faces and three pairs of arms. The group of spectral entities raised their hands, and the raven was transformed in a ball of swirling snow into something much bigger. It changed shape several times, shifting through various strange and powerful creatures until it finally landed upon that of a man.

“He started out by defyin’ his origins. He was of real noble heart, guidin’ the humans, as we all did. Sometimes, he would take to the forests and find all the lost souls wandering within, and he’d show them the way to Tech Duinn. However, the humans began to think of him as an omen of death, and came to fear him for no true reason at all. They would throw stones at his brothers and sisters, the ravens, fearing the doom they might bring. That was the first nail in the coffin!”

The man, wearing an expression of true fear, was chased into the forest by a crowd of jeering humans.

It agonised Aurora to see it. Not only did it hurt, in part, seeing the rejection that might have encouraged a spirit’s descent to demonhood, it hurt even more how such a vision struck so close to home. Moving closer to Diaval, she looped her arm around his and peered up at him, finding a sullen despondence upon his features. 

“Mori’ka braved the storm, however!” Fionnlagh continued. “When the gods of Tech Duinn began to spread a corruption from the fairy rings and threatened mankind, he sought out the fabled Phoenix and asked her for the very essence of her life-power, the flame which had carried her egg to the earth. He stole the Cumbrian Torch from the lakes of the wilds and used it to carry the flame all the way to Tairseach, the mystical island that housed the truest gateway to Tech Duinn! By lighting the gateway with such powerful magic, he trapped the gods and the rising undead in their own realm. Afterwards, fearin’ the Phoenix and her power, Tir na Nog separated itself from the world of men, and most of the fairy rings fell closed.”

The glittering snow told the story just as well as words did. What one could presume to be the gods, humanoid figures of various shapes, sizes, and attributes, drifted away from the manifestations of towns and forests and disappeared into the wind. The remaining structures in the snow crumbled apart, though then rose in elegant swirls to form a crowned man and a winged woman, who took each other’s hands and moved in for a loving kiss.

They, too, crumbled away. The snow returned to its prior state, dusting across the ground to move no more.

Aurora and Diaval turned back to Fionnlagh, finding his eyes half closed and laden with sorrow.

“The humans were grateful, for a time. There are monuments to them in forests across the lands. As generations passed, the humans only came to fear Mori’ka and his power again. Diablo, they called him, which was a monster formed in their very own minds, a demon that lingered in the darkness and was everything that they feared. To them, Mori’ka was the one to give that monster a face. No matter where he went, no matter what he tried, the humans’ respect would only last so long. We thought the love between him and the Phoenix would be the thing to keep him fighting for the greater good.”

The owl closed his eyes, then, the very picture of grief. Aurora reached forwards towards the wall and put a gentle hand on his grey, scaly foot, feeling his evident pain alongside him.

“Hoo, dear me. It feels like only yesterday he was here with us, bragging that he had found true love. _Gods_ , he loved her! They were inseparable for hundreds of years. It really was true love, but that’s the thing, y’see. When something so powerful falls apart, it becomes somethin’ so very destructive. A person might channel that pain by findin’ ways to cope with their loss … or they’ll use it to hurt everyone around them. Mori’ka had already spilt human blood out of pure hatred and revenge by then, for their continued attempts to invade the Moors. Now, it has become his very purpose. That enormous space in his heart which he had loved with so fiercely is nothin’ but a vessel of pure hate. The Phoenix he knew is gone, and he never met his own brood.” Fionnlagh hooted sadly again. “I can understand what that particular part feels like.”

A glistening tear the size of Aurora’s fist dribbled down the length of the owl’s flattened face. The queen, immediately feeling for him, felt tears of her own spring forth as the weight of the tale truly set in. She stroked at the feathers on his feet in what she hoped might have been a comforting gesture.

“Thank you for telling us his story,” she said gently, glancing back at Diaval and smiling when she saw him quickly dab conspicuously at a tear of his own.

“Ah, yes, you’re quite welcome. As for how to defeat him … hm, spirits are difficult to get rid of, as we well know! His corrupted essence is sensitive to the purest form of magic, however, as Mr. Angry Raven here I’m sure has found out the hard way. The gods and whatever forces await in the many realms beyond ours ensured there was a way to purge the mortal world of magically destructive evil. Anyone pure of heart can bless an object or substance with love and good intentions for whatever reason. Demons can’t touch such things. Thrust into their very essence, it can destroy them. It truly goes against my purpose here to advise killing anythin’, but, y’know … the Veiled Queen is already dead and you’re gonna save a lot of human lives by putting Mori’ka out of his misery. As much as I hate for it to come to this.”

“Why can’t you do it?” Diaval was quick to point out. He folded his arms and stared up at the owl, trying and failing to hide his sympathy. “All three of you. You could go there and take him down without people even knowin’ you’re there. You could even take the flame while you’re at it.”

Fionnlagh brushed his tear away with his wing and immediately fluffed up, appearing vaguely annoyed - or about as annoyed as an owl _could_ look. 

“ _Mori’ka_ was free to do what he wanted. Hoo! Indeed, the gods of Tech Duinn never cared to give him direction. They hoped to turn him to their cause entirely, which they _did_ , in the end. However, the púca are meant to be neutral entities that exist to guide the likes of humans on the right path. Upper Management might see fit to take our powers away if we dared do such a thing as get directly involved! It is painful to watch these things unfold, let me assure you!”

“Ah,” said Diaval, apparently unimpressed. “Bit of a shame, isn’t it? You can turn into all these amazin’ animals but can’t do anythin’ with ‘em?”

“The land I was sent to protect is far away from here! The Moors comes under Mori’ka’s responsibility! I suppose in his twisted mind, he _is_ performing his role by dismantling the human kingdoms, but you know better, don’t you, Diaval?” Fionnlagh peered curiously down at the man, eyes narrowing. “This is precisely why the gods didn’t want a raven as a púca. You’re too free-spirited. Escape artists, some might say! Just as Mori’ka escaped from his given purpose, you are already questioning yours!”

Diaval scoffed. “I’ll protect the Moors. I’ll protect my family, but not ‘cause of anythin’ the gods might want. I don’t serve them. I was never meant to be his replacement, otherwise they never would have let a demon do all the things he did to me.”

“Then maybe you are meant to be the one to stop him. Did you consider that?” Fionnlagh countered. “Why else would the Otherworld be reachin’ out to you in the way it does? It sees one who is able to stop Mori’ka’s wretched legacy from repeating itself. That is how you’ll protect the Moors, raven! By not succumbing to hate like he did. By removing him from all realms, once and for all. Maybe you don’t realise that the soul exchange would have required your consent? You have a responsibility to -“

“I didn’t - that’s -“ Diaval fumbled, staring up at the spirit in disbelief. He always wore his heart on his sleeve, and there was a sudden, enormous hurt there to be seen, yanked unceremoniously from hidden places and unwanted memories. “How is it consent if my only other option was dyin’? He knew that! He saw every last thing that she did to me! He knew how in love I was with Maleficent, that I would have done anythin’ to come back to her and Aurora! Don’t stand there blamin’ me for the things that he did!”

Aurora wasn’t sure if she had ever seen her father as angry as he was then. There was something scary about it, seeing somebody usually so calm and measured stumble into a pit near impossible to get out of once the edges were breached. A voice in the back of her mind told her to be wary, and as much as she tried to shush it, the memory of him struggling and failing to control his dragon-shape was presented in terrifying, crystal-clear detail.

She could never be frightened of Diaval himself. Never. The gentle raven had been there since she was a baby, making sure she never felt alone and raising her as best he could. It truly hurt to hear him speak of his terrible experiences, now, to hear the crack in his voice, the desperate anger, and all the pain that came with it. It frightened her that there were things in the world that could break even a man like him. It frightened her to consider the weight of the responsibility suddenly placed on his shoulders, his shifting changes in status and reputation, when such a thing had happened to a spirit of the past and ultimately destroyed it.

From what she understood, Mori’ka had suffered a similar fate. He was a spirit who was, at his very core, a common raven burdened with power and a love so fierce that he was prepared to do anything to protect it, even if it meant destroying the lives of innocents. And now a piece of him was there in her father’s own soul, encouraging history to repeat itself.

She was not frightened of Diaval. Never. As a queen, however, she was frightened by the idea of what similar creatures had become in wake of significant betrayal. Even the best of people could come to ruin. It was even worse when they had never deserved the contempt in the first place.

Even the púca looked uncomfortable, shifting his feet in the silence. He seemed stumped, and in all fairness, suitably apologetic.

“I hope you might forgive me for soundin’ insensitive, Diaval. I can see all the things you’ve endured because of him. Everything the Moors has endured, too.”

Diaval said nothing in response for a time, evidently fuming but reining himself in. Aurora said nothing, too, not wanting to take anything from the extremely sensitive matters being discussed. Though it was all devastating to hear, she perhaps understood it all a little better, now.

“If the flame is taken back to … what was it, Tairseach? If it’s taken back, it’ll stop the Feth Fiadha from returnin’?” Diaval asked at long last, unclenching his hands. 

“Aye! It would seal the dead back where they belong. I hope you lot have a plan! It’ll take some time for the souls to recuperate their spiritual forms, but I have no doubt Mori’ka will use them again.”

“Will breakin’ the corrupted fairy ring in Breoslaigh end the drought there?”

Fionnlagh looked surprised at that.

“Oh … well, breaking fairy rings is highly frowned upon, but I suppose it _is_ the only thing that’ll stop the darkness flowing in from Tech Duinn!”

Aurora and Diaval glanced at each other long enough to share an agreeable look. The plan would go ahead, and it had to be done _soon_ , not just for the sake of the people of Breoslaigh but for all the kingdoms of the land. That the Feth Fiadha could return again and wreak destruction was a terrifying thought. It seemed more likely that the dead would attack a human kingdom, given that Mori’ka seemed to favour the Moors, but if that kingdom was Ulstead? Wickpon? Or perhaps it would even seek to destroy innocents in enemy kingdoms if Mori’ka tired of them.

“Are we done?” Fionnlagh questioned in a vaguely whining tone. “I’m still missin’ out on all the food! I’ll be happy to answer any more questions later!”

“Wait,” Diaval demanded quickly. He glanced at Aurora again, appearing nervous, then raised his head to regard the spirit with a worried frown. “Can he, er … Seein’ as I’m a raven an’ all … Can he spy on us by seeing through me?”

“Ah.” Fionnlagh had been edging towards the forest, though he stopped and bent down to peer very closely at the man stood below him, his great head swerving this way and that as he looked deeply into his face. “Hoo, dear! You are different from other ravens. Your soul is … hm. More defined? More sentient? And there is powerful fairy magic sustainin’ you. Indeed. I think Mori’ka will have a hard time seein’ through your eyes as he sees through your kin. That is not to say, however, he is entirely dormant within you. He will get stronger. He has already claimed the ravens of the ancestral island.”

“What does he want with me?” Pressed Diaval, without giving proper time for the dour news to settle.

“I can’t say anythin’ with certainty! Misdirection, perhaps? Lettin’ you take the blame for his evil while he operates somewhere he can’t be touched? Hoo! How dreadful! Perhaps he hopes you’ll follow the same path that he did. Then he won’t only have control over the body of a woman that can sling fire, but a man that can turn into the most devastating of creatures! Unfortunate as it is, until you destroy him entirely, you _are_ his prisoner. I fear you have been since he first laid eyes on you.”

It was a devastating revelation. As much as Aurora was better understanding what they were up against, she really was starting to wish that it was only a nightmare. She hoped for the possibility that she was sleeping, as much as the thought of such a deep sleep terrified her, and that nothing of what she was hearing was true. It wasn’t true that the Feth Fiadha would return. It wasn’t true that her father’s life being restored to him had come at such a huge, painful cost. It wasn’t true that they were slowly running out of time until another disaster struck the Moors. Their family.

It was true. All of it.

Never had she dreamt she would face such things as queen. She had to be strong, however, no matter how difficult it was, not only for herself, but for her kingdom and its treasured allies. For her beloved parents, who had gave everything to make sure she could have the life she wanted.

Again, Diaval did not seem keen to give the news ample time to settle.

“Is there a way I can better control my shapeshifting?” He asked. His voice had suddenly lost much of its musical lustre.

Fionnlagh jumped down from the wall and placed a brotherly wing, albeit very gingerly, upon Diaval’s shoulder.

“Not while the power is not truly your own. I would suggest that you avoid stressful situations. Er … as best you can, I suppose, given the circumstances … Oh! Hoo! I almost forgot! You need to find the Cumbrian Torch, brother! It’s the only ancient artefact powerful enough to carry the flame! Mori’ka had the fairies hide it in the Moors after he first sealed Tech Duinn, fearin’ that the humans might use it to free the dead. Apparently, even he doesn’t know where it is. He must have resorted to terrible magic to remove the flame from its rightful place … Anyhoot, try not to get stressed while you’re finding it, hm?”

Diaval’s withering stare could have dried out the entire Moors.

He ducked away from the spirit’s wing and moved to Aurora’s side, silent as the grave. 

“Would you have any idea where it is?” Aurora pushed, taking hold of her father’s arm again.

“Not a clue-hoo! You’re better off askin’ the fairies in case the tales were passed down through the generations! Are you done with me, yet?”

“Yes,” the queen murmured, sighing. “Thank you, Fionnlagh. You’ve done the Moors a great service by passing on your knowledge. You can go and be with your people.”

The white púca hooted happily at that, and with an impressive flourish of white magic and snow, he finally disappeared into the wind and left the pair of them covered in a light dusting of frost.

As soon as he was gone, Aurora turned to Diaval and put her hands on his shoulders, offering her support and encouragement. The poor man looked so tired and defeated, and who could blame him? She struggled to fathom what must have been going through his mind, but she knew he must have at least been as frightened as she was, if not more. Who wouldn’t be frightened after hearing what they had heard?

“We’ll go through with your plan,” she said firmly, gripping his shoulders. “We’ll win Breoslaigh over. We’ll do it as soon as possible. The flame will be taken back to Tairseach, and we’ll find a way to destroy Mori’ka once and for all! We can do this together, father! I truly believe it.”

Despite it all, Diaval did manage a small smile for her sake, and he nodded.

“Yes, Aurora. We’ll find a way.”

“Yes!” Leaning in, Aurora hugged him tightly. “I won’t stop fighting for you. Not ever.”

Glancing up, she found him looking a bit bewildered at that. 

“Diamond, I think -“

Whatever it was he was thinking, he did not get the chance to say.

A strange, crackling sound suddenly boomed throughout the forest.

Whatever had caused it, it was powerful enough that the tops of the trees swayed, scraping at the grey sky with their bare branches. Then, there was a sensation that could only be described as being akin to static prickling at their bodies. Aurora looked down and found all the tried twigs and leaves upon the frosty grass trembling as though the very earth was shaking, but she could not feel it for herself.

“What …?”

Far away, over the tops of the dark trees, a spire of green magic erupted into the sky. All the magic toying with their surroundings immediately lifted away.

The young queen gasped in horror, clinging tightly on to her father’s arms. Wasn’t this what had happened during the Feth Fiadha? A tower of green emerging from nowhere, sending out a devastating wave of magical mist? Granted, there was no mist to be seen, nor could she smell the stench of death on the air, but the blinding spire of green still served to terrify her.

“Aurora! It’s alright. I mean, it’s not alright, but it’s not the Feth Fiadha!” Diaval said quickly. “That came from the north-west, over the sea. I think this is -“

“Mother,” Aurora muttered worriedly, turning her gaze to the heavens.

The massive tower of magic gradually changed from emerald green to a more comforting gold. From the crown of it, a beautiful force-field of that familiar, sparkling energy began to spread swiftly across the sky, stretching on and on until it disappeared past the trees and beyond the horizon. It was an awe-inspiring, wondrous display of magic, the scope of which was only rivalled by seeing the Phoenix herself.

Then, the glittering gold filling the skies faded, but there was no doubt that the magic was still present. Every now and then, a trickle of light would swirl or swoop down from the clouds, indicating the powerful barrier of magic remained.

Aurora released Diaval and hurried towards the forest. Swerving as swiftly as she could through the trees, she then ran up towards the castle, grabbed her sword from where it was hung on a wall, and entered the court to find it even more chaotic than before.

The pixies were the worst, whizzing about the sky with terrible proclamations and striking fear into the hearts of the fairies, who beheld the skies with dread. Impundulu was pecking at the body of Nagual, who was lying in the grass with his black tongue lolling crudely out of his mouth. Around them, the Dark Fae looked highly confused and were relieved at Aurora’s approach. Fionnlagh was still eating as though nothing was happening at all.

“Is he alright?!” She asked at once, kneeling down at the side of the giant macaw and putting a hand into his vibrant feathers. “Nagual!”

“Cargh! He’s fine!” Impundulu bellowed, then he laughed wickedly. “That magic gave him the fright of his life! He’s just playing dead. Get up, you magnificent ignoramus!” He pecked the supposed corpse of his brother again.

At that, Nagual rolled messily up onto his feet and jabbed a beak at Impundulu in turn, then grabbed him by the wings to shake him violently.

“Shut up! That was Phoenix magic! I’m not going back into that stupid tiny little space again! I’M NOT GOING! SHE CAN’T MAKE US!”

The two continued pecking at each other, and Aurora stood back to watch them at a complete loss.

“You’re not being sealed away again!” She insisted. “She might be in trouble, or …” As to not worsen the evident fear among her people, she stopped short. The queen took a deep, steadying breath, and then turned back to the throne where her father was standing, his eyes fixed desperately on the sky. 

His relief was tangible when the familiar beating of powerful wings emerged over the din. A dark shadow fell over the court, and at once, the fairies and pixies fell silent and gathered into some semblance of order when Maleficent descended (though some of them still found themselves being blown over by the resultant gusts). 

With her sword still held fast in her hands, Aurora ran to her mother at once, quickly looking over her. Maleficent appeared as stoic as ever. If not more so, truth be told, her sharp features carefully composed, even as flickers of green magic swirled about her taut fingers. It was an admirable show of control. It just wasn’t convincing enough anymore.

“Mother,” Aurora breathed. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing,” Maleficent said tersely, her hand twisting a bit around her staff. “It was about time I put up an extra measure of defence.”

So that’s what it was. Aurora blinked up at the sky in wonder. A protective spell! A shield that spanned across the entire Moors. It seemed a reasonable thing to do, and yet … why was her mother so angry? Suddenly nervous, she reached forwards and took one of Maleficent’s hands into her own to gently hold it.

“Where did you go?”

The faerie’s eyes flickered at that, the harsh lines of her face softening just so. The bright, emerald green in their telling depths gradually shifted to a warmer, more golden colour, though she remained oddly stiff and pent up. Concerned, Aurora drew her closer to the throne.

Diaval immediately set about dismissing the court, shifting them away with urging gestures of his arms. Perhaps he, too, sensed a rising tension in the air.

“I went to Ulstead,” Maleficent said at last, when the last of the fairies began to disperse back into the forest. Even the púca disappeared off into the sky, though not without generous helpings of breakfast seized in their talons. She watched them go, and then her eyes fell upon Diaval, who awkwardly lingered nearby with his hands clasped at his front. “King John is safe. I healed him.”

Aurora positively beamed with joy at the news. With a cry of relief, she allowed a moment to embrace the faerie with everything she had, so happy that she could have wept.

“Oh, mother! That’s wonderful news! Thank you! Phillip must be so relieved! Did you see him? How is he? How …” she trailed off. Her mother was not embracing her back, nor did she even smile. “Are they alright? Is Riordan alright?”

“They are all well, Aurora.” Maleficent’s form straightened, and her grip tightened about her staff. “This shield around the Moors means that I know who is leaving and who is entering. I have … informed the prince that only the royal family and their messengers can cross the borders. Our kingdom is closed to Ulstead.”

Aurora’s smile dripped clean off her face. A heavy silence settled, then, as she mulled over what she’d heard.

“I … what? You closed the borders to the Moors? Why?”

“Why else? Their people have proven themselves a danger to ours. Not one of us shall go there again, not while they are still pelting us with iron arrows and calling us monsters.”

Any joy the queen felt moments ago was forced back to a place she might recall it later. In its place - a cold realisation, and a sickening disappointment that she was so tired of feeling when it came to her own kind. Humans. Spinning to face Diaval, she gaped at him in accusatory fashion.

“They _shot_ you? You didn’t tell me!”

He said nothing, keeping himself out of the conversation entirely. Aurora was not one to drag him into it, either. Not after everything they had just learnt together. Still, she was vaguely annoyed he hadn’t thought to tell her that particular detail - or perhaps he had meant to keep her from the truth entirely.

“You - both of you! You need to talk to me about these things!” Spinning back to Maleficent, she shook her head, astounded. “I understand your reasoning, mother, but something like closing our borders should be my decision. Why didn’t you just talk to me first? I had no idea what to tell the court when it happened! I thought it was - I thought something had _happened_ to you. ”

“It’s my duty to protect the Moors and its people,” Maleficent said firmly. “I believe the situation required such measures. I’ll not have any more coming home looking as though they’ve just returned from war. Certainly not from kingdoms that were _supposed_ to be our allies.”

“I know what your duty is, mother. I’m the queen. You put this crown on my head yourself because you trusted my judgement with such things. I have a son of my own who is still in Ulstead! Or is it that you both still see a little girl whenever you look at me?”

Aurora looked between her parents. Diaval appeared deeply troubled, concentrating firmly on the ground. Maleficent just watched her in unhelpful silence. She did not know what to make of their reactions, and was forced to restrain her anger in acknowledgement that neither of them were human. The Moors did not often adhere to the human way of things, and Aurora admittedly liked it to stay that way.

That they still sought to keep things from her did make her feel like a child, however, and it was important that they understood it. At the same time, she understood now more than ever just how _scared_ they were - something that seemed impossible in the mind of her child-self, long ago. Her wonderful parents, the powerful faerie and the clever raven, surely couldn’t be scared of anything at all. 

But, of course they were. They were scared for each other. They were scared for her, her son, and their home. Their very right to live. That was something that Aurora knew she needed to remember.

“You are Queen of the Moors,” Maleficent said, oddly quiet. “Forgive me, Beastie. I acted without addressing you. I will not have anything tear our family apart. I want the Moors to be the safest place for our family, so that we might grow in peace.”

Diaval moved closer, too, tugging playfully at Aurora’s cloak of flowers.

“I’m sorry. With everything goin’ on, I didn’t want you to worry.” 

“I _do_ worry. I need to know these things! Everything is so awful and all I want is for the world to be a better place for you both!”

They stood together, watching her with such love that it was nearly heartbreaking.

“The world is a better place,” began Maleficent.

“With you in it,” Diaval finished. “We can do this together, Diamond. I truly believe it.”

And both of them stood there and tried to smile. It was more like they had bows threatening to fire on them if they didn’t, but they tried.

Utterly infuriating. Damnably lovable. Aurora could never stay annoyed at either of them for long, even if she really did want to just this once.

As it were, Aurora was not the sort that could hold on to anger for any length of time at all, especially not with those that she loved with every fibre of her being. Feeling pesky tears crawl to her eyes, she lowered her sword down onto her throne and moved in to embrace them both.

“I’ll make a world that will never hurt you,” she promised, struggling to speak past the ball in her throat. “No walls or threats. Just freedom for us all.”

When they parted, Diaval loudly cleared his throat while Maleficent looked away just long enough that she might scratch a suddenly moist spot near the bridge of her nose.

“I believe that you will, darling. There is something else you should know,” the faerie murmured, glancing suggestively at her mate just long enough that he soon seemed to realise what she was talking about. They both smiled again. A new, truer sort of smile that served to temporarily chase away the bitter bleakness of the dawning Winter.

Aurora beheld them nervously, wondering what on earth they were about to tell her. 

“What? What is it? Are you in trouble?”

“No. Not with anyone save for yourself, this time.” With that, Maleficent paused, seeming to struggle with herself a moment. Whatever it was, it was apparently a sudden struggle to put into words. “Well … Yes. I am all the more determined to protect our home because of the children.”

“The … Do you mean the Dark Fae children? I understand.”

“... Yes, and Riordan.”

Again, her parents shared a look. Diaval was twitching his eyebrows, offering something that might have been encouraging in nature. All the while, Maleficent gazed blankly at him.

“Is it the right time?” Her mother said lowly, as if Aurora could not plainly hear her.

“Yes, darlin’. I think she might be onto us, now.”

Maleficent took a breath and still somehow managed to say nothing, but she didn’t have to say anything by then, for it struck Aurora quite suddenly what they seemed to be inferring. 

Children. _Children._ They skirted about the topic as though Aurora had not been waiting for this day since she realised those who raised her were a pair desperately in love.

She covered her mouth with her hands. 

“You’re pregnant,” she breathed, muffled. 

And what beautiful, joyous news it was. She’d known it was coming for so long, especially since their hand-fasting, and now … here it was, the happy news that would have been significantly happier if not for the vaguely tragic undertone of it all. Hearing it so soon after everything Fionnlagh said was absolutely agonising. Maleficent was pregnant and forced to endure the stress of conflict, and as for Diaval … he was doing a fine job of staying composed because there was truly no other choice. 

Tears sprang to her eyes again, born of both true elation and sympathy. It must have been some of the happiest news of their lives but it was happening _now,_ when the entire world seemed about ready to crumble around them.

But joy prevailed. It had to. Any new light in their lives needed to be celebrated no matter what.

And so she let herself laugh with giddy excitement. With a squeal, she grabbed the two of them into a solid embrace again, jumping up and down a little in their hold.

“YOU’RE FINALLY PREGNANT!!”

“Finally? Have you been waitin’ for this?” Diaval asked, buried in strands of golden hair.

“Of course I have!” Tearful, Aurora pulled away just enough she could gaze upon them both. “I’m so happy for you! Look how far you’ve both come. You’re having a baby!”

“Babies,” Diaval corrected with pride, not missing the opportunity to flaunt himself a bit. “Twin girls are the fruits of our labour.”

“Twins! Oh, wow! This is wonderful news! I’ll finally have little sisters!”

With any prior tension suitably alleviated at last, Maleficent smiled a true smile. Aurora could have cried even more to see it, and again when her parents looked at each other with a tender affection that spanned decades. Even her mother, who struggled to show such things at the best of times, was so clearly infatuated, not only with her mate but with the very idea of what they were going to bring into the world together. Aurora hoped that Phillip could still share looks like that with her twenty years down the line.

True love. It would save them all yet.


	13. Tinder

_ Dear Diaval, _

_ I would have called you the usual pain-in-my-arse but you’ve evaded that one this time.  _

_ I’m not one to believe in fate and all that rubbish, but it seems strange I would meet and help the one that would eventually bring my son back home to me. I haven’t been this happy for years! My son is alive and he is home and our kingdom enjoys such a wonderful union with yours. I was wondering if you have any handsome eligible Dark Fae available so that we might make this union more official? And I’m not talking about me, but Pio, of course, who is obsessed by them even if he insists otherwise. The ones over here are a bit too mysterious and brooding for his tastes, so he says. _

_ Just joking. Sort of. _

_ Once again you’ve done our people an enormous service off your own back and I’m still thinking of ways we might thank you. Did you ever get a honeymoon with Maleficent? I’ll give you a tab in The Horse’s Head on the house, and a cabin in the mountains once Summer comes. It’s beautiful up there! Our kingdom is your kingdom, so please make use of it! And if there is ever anything you need, come to old Queen Mera and I’ll do my best to make it happen! _

_ Thank you. Thank you! Pioden is much happier here now than he ever was. He’s so excited to see you again. I’m not sure what ravens eat, but do come over for dinner one night! Your whole family is invited! I’d love to meet Riordan again, and Phillip, and that sweet, very handsome King John. Yes, you can tell him I said that, but don’t tell Udo. I’m always telling him how handsome he is, too. I don’t want him to get jealous. _

_ I hope you are all taking care of yourselves over there. I’ll be having words with you if I found out you’ve gone on any dangerous adventures again! _

_ All my love, _

_ Queen Mera _

  
  
  


_ Diaval!  _

_ Did I spell that right? _

_ It’s so good to be home!  _

_ Things would probably be different if I had stayed all along, but my eyes are opened! I shouldn’t have given up on this place. My father was the one who didn’t deserve my time. It’s weird and maybe it sounds cruel, but now that he’s gone, this castle feels so different. More free, I think. And everyone is so happy all the time because they’re just glad to be alive! Thank you so much for bringing me home. This is where I belong and you helped me remember that before I did something really dumb.  _

_ The tundra fae seem to like it here a lot. Like, a LOT. They live up in the mountains but visit the markets and the castle all the time. My mum is constantly flirting with Udo, which would be embarrassing anyway but it’s even worse because he has a family, but he takes it in his stride I think. We’ve all been working together to finish off rebuilding the city and it’s looking so great. You really need to come and visit again! It’s just proper that I meet Aurora and Phillip and all that lot, right?! Or maybe I can come and visit the Moors and Ulstead! I have so much stuff I want to ask! _

_ Like, what’s the difference between a fairy and a faerie? Udo is keeping me hanging because he thinks it’s funny. I didn’t realise he had a sense of humour until now, but there you go. Is it like the all toads are frogs but not all frogs are toads kind of thing? I’m so confused!  _

_ By the way, ignore everything in my mum’s letter. I’m pretty sure she’s already trying to marry me off. Uncool. I only just got here! It’s not my fault the Dark Fae are so beautiful! Are they all like that?! Is Maleficent beautiful like that? I want to meet her! _

_ Take care, Bearfoot! Make sure we see each other soon! _

_ Prince Pioden _

* * *

Diaval was quite devastated to find out that he’d apparently forgotten how to write at some point within the last few weeks.

It was late afternoon and he and Maleficent had since been dismissed by Aurora for the day, either because she really thought they needed the time off or she just couldn’t put up with the romantic staring anymore. Nearby in their cave, his mate was finishing off the little nest, elegantly weaving the wood with magic and creating the pretty mobile to dangle over it. 

With one of his own feathers in hand and a pot of ink, Diaval resolved to write letters back to Wickpon explaining the current situation (and to explain that, indeed, all faeries were fairies but not all fairies were faeries). However … it was the strangest thing. All he could manage was illegible scrapes and smears of ink on the parchment, as though he’d forgotten how to form the shapes of letters entirely. He could see them in his head, he could just about form the words, but actually making them manifest was suddenly impossible. He tried holding his wrist to stop the errant movements of his hand, to no avail.

Placing down the nest, Maleficent moved over and read the letters from Mera and Pioden, a small quirk forming at her lips as she did. Diaval watched her, quickly trying to cover up his meagre attempts at responding out of embarrassment, but she saw it before he could. 

She frowned, and she slid her cool hand over his to stay the shaking. Diaval looked away, desperately racking his mind for a way to change the subject before it could arise.

“It’s cold today! Where’s your fur cloak? You’ll catch a chill all like that,” he attempted, fully aware that the cave was warmed by Maleficent’s magic, but it was worth a shot. Or not. Anything to direct her attention away from the child-like scribbles there on the parchment. 

Carefully, she drew the feather away from his hand and guided him up to his feet. She said nothing, gazing at him in that unyielding and purposeful way of hers, and walked him over to their nest. There, she released his hand and climbed in to make herself comfortable, her gaze not leaving him for a moment.

Uncertain as to what she wanted, Diaval took off his coat and boots and clambered in behind her, starting on the lower buttons of his loose shirt next - but he stopped when Maleficent held up a hand.

“No. Just lie with me.” She reached for him and brought him down, and he allowed her to maneuver him as if he were a toy doll.

Maleficent rested on her back. Diaval ended up sprawled near enough on top of her, his head at her breast. He stared at the daylight streaming in through the opening of the cave just beyond, realising in the silence just how loud and rampant his thoughts were, so he instead focused on the steady, strong beating of Maleficent’s heart beneath his ear. The cold sensation that had been crawling across his skin all day gradually eased, replaced by pleasant tingles of warmth when fingers raked through the hair on the back of his head.

Still, she said nothing, and Diaval couldn’t think of anything to say either, even if there was so much he  _ had  _ to tell her.

Slowly, he relaxed, concentrating only on the physical. All those deafening, wailing thoughts became quieter. Muffled, even, and not quite making sense, but that served as a blessing in that moment. He couldn’t begin to make sense of everything going on if it was all shrieking at him at once, demanding his attention and reminding him over and over again of the hundreds of threats pervading his every waking moment. And every sleeping moment too, apparently.

He was trapped. A prisoner, as Fionnlagh put it, not only of Mori’ka but of his own mind, too. It was failing him. Unreliable, eventually to become dangerous if the demon got his way.

It wasn’t fair.

He shifted his head. Placing a hand on Maleficent’s belly, he gazed longingly down at it. Nearby, he could hear the mobile of their babies’ nest tinkling gently in the soft breeze that fluttered through the cave. They sang a soft song of hopeful dreams, visions darkened by the looming shadow of time and unseen evils.

A dreadful ache arose in his chest.

He measured his breaths, closing his eyes and letting the dreamy, tinkling quiet lull him into a light doze. It wasn’t his intention to fall asleep entirely, but he must have done; when his stinging eyes fluttered open again, the cave was darker and lit by the black, melted candles dotted about the cosy space. Maleficent had not moved at all. The rise and fall of her chest and the comforting thump of her heart made the journey to wakefulness a peaceful one, at least until memories of the day came crawling back to grip on to his thoughts like vices.

Shifting a bit, he snuggled up into the curve of her neck and inhaled her lovely, warm scent. In turn, she found his hand and held it, her skin so soft and beautiful against his own.

Slowly did Diaval bring her hand to his lips and kiss her knuckles. Again and again, he lavished soft attention there, all up the back of her hand and her wrist. 

“Imagine this,” he croaked at long last, stroking her elegant fingers with his thumb. “This, right here … but there’s the sound of children playin’.”

His words, though fruitful with hope and cautious joy, left something of a hollowness behind them.

“Such dreams will be brought to life, darling. We have walked many of them together already, sometimes without even realising.” Maleficent turned her head a little and brushed her lips against Diaval’s forehead. “You looked as though you had seen a ghost when I arrived back. What did the spirit tell you?”

Diaval closed his eyes again, pained. 

“Not much of it was good news.”

“No?” 

Silence dwindled for a time. Diaval tried to assemble everything he needed to say in some sort of chronological order, but the dull fuzziness occupying his mind made it difficult to even remember every little thing that was said. Without looking at her, he recounted the things Fionnlagh had informed him as well as he could, which wasn’t particularly well at all - he fumbled a bit over the details, or backtracked to mention things of importance he’d forgotten.

By the end, he simply felt … empty. Like the words had clumsily exited him and left behind a void, a shell ripe for picking. There was a demon out there thrilled by such a notion.

Maleficent began to move. Diaval reluctantly sat up to make room. When she rose to meet his eyes, he looked away, unable to bear the thought of her looking at him and seeing something that shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t right, was it? All this … it went against his nature. He was meant to be reliable. Honest. There were times lately he hadn’t been either of those things, and he was feeling less and less like himself, as though a part of his identity had been stolen. That he wasn’t  _ just  _ Diaval anymore made him feel a deep shame. He never would be just Diaval again, even if they won and destroyed Mori’ka. He would always be carrying all the awful things that had happened like a scar on his very soul.

There were people relying on him. Hundreds of thousands, even if most of them didn’t know it. Entire kingdoms needed this demon to be gone, but Diaval was no longer sure he even had the strength to do it anymore. Not when the entire world was out to hurt him simply for being alive, when they would shoot him dead before he’d even have the chance to meet his own children.

Any pillars that might have been holding him aloft lost their strength and snapped. He tried to fight it, of course he did, but he was only one raven and the weight of it all falling on top of him was crushing.

Maleficent did not say anything in response to the news initially. Still holding her hand, he squeezed gently at it, silently lending his support. After all, Mori’ka was her ancestor just as much as the Phoenix was, and it must have been difficult for her to hear, especially so soon after she’d lost Merin. 

Soon, she shifted until she was sat in front of him, and then leaned in so that their foreheads and noses would touch, holding the back of his head to keep him there. He knew that such a thing was a gesture of romantic affection among the Dark Fae, something even more significant than perhaps kissing was, because it symbolised a joining of souls and consciousnesses in such a way that made them one entity, able to look directly into each other’s eyes and see everything there within.

Her long eyelashes fluttered against his. Her eyes were golden, two pools of glittering treasure. Magic swirled slowly within their depths. Diaval found himself entranced, unable to look away even for a second.

“You are stronger than he is, Diaval,” Maleficent said firmly. “I believe that is why he cannot claim you entirely. He is trying to break you, perhaps trying to make you fall as he fell, but he cannot. You are too strong and kind. Not even Wynne could defeat you. Not the cruelty of men. Not even death. Remember this, my love.” Her gaze was full of fire. The eyes of a Phoenix, brimming with her gifts of life and death. “I promise that your soul will be healed and that monster cast out. Do you hear me? We  _ will  _ find a way.”

He stared at her, clinging to the truths in her words. 

It was not the time to give in. It never would be. He couldn’t break, because it meant that the enemy would win.

Just a little longer. He would keep going, no matter how difficult it was becoming. He had to. For Maleficent, for Aurora, for their unborn babies. For the Moors. 

He felt his face crease a bit. Closing his eyes, he nodded subtly. 

“Yes, Maleficent.”

Gradually, they drew apart. Maleficent’s hand lingered at his head, her fingers combing thoughtfully through hair and feather. 

“Did you truly give up a part of your soul so that you could return to us?” She asked quietly.

“I … yeah, it looks that way. I can’t have been really aware of what it meant. The things that would happen ‘cause of it.” At that, he drew his knees up to his chest and considered that horrifying notion. He had actively helped Mori’ka in his desperation to come back to his family.

He’d promised he’d be there for Aurora when her child was born. He couldn’t leave Maleficent alone. By coming back, he’d made Aurora happy and he’d been able to give Maleficent the love and family that she deserved. He’d give up parts of his soul again if it meant their future would be secure. That they’d be happy in a newer, more peaceful world.

“I don’t regret it,” he added, even as those thoughts weighed heavily on him, “but I think I have an obligation to try and make things right. I need to take away everythin’ that I might’ve helped him gain.”

“He used you, Diaval. You have  _ no _ obligation to fix the things he has done, and you are not responsible for his evil. You are not to blame for anything.” Maleficent’s eyes turned hard, though they were moistened with sorrow. “I was the one that sent you into his grasp in the first place.”

Stunned by that, Diaval perked up at once and gaped at her, shaking his head adamantly.

“No, Maleficent!”

“I think of it every day, that night you were brave enough to tell me you loved me. And I …”

“No. Stop there.” Frantically seeking out Maleficent’s hands, he held them close to his chest, dismayed by what he was hearing. “We’ve been through this. We’ve forgiven each other for that night. Besides, I’m sure Mori’ka would’ve found a way. Remember when you first showed me the fairy ring on the ancestral island and I had that weird vision? I think it was … maybe that was when he was able to hook something in my mind. I’m a raven, Maleficent. He’s always known about me. He’d have found a way to get what he wanted, even without Wickpon. ‘N besides, who knows where we’d be if Wynne wasn’t stopped in time?”

“Yes,” Maleficent murmured, reluctantly submitting to the truth. There was a long silence, and then she cocked her head, watching him with a curious expression. “Well. Unicorn horns and toad warts and demonic parasites … it’s all still preferable to you having that beard you go on about.”

Diaval stared, spluttering with surprise. 

“ _ What _ ?” Despite himself, and despite the sheer unhappiness he’d felt at having to relay the dreadful truth to his mate, she was able to draw a smile and even a raspy laugh out of him. “What is it with you and beards?!”

Maleficent smiled, too, so beautiful and sparkling and  _ incredible _ . 

While they could laugh and love, the shadows could never win. Diaval knew that, and he remembered it suddenly so clearly that it was a wonder that for a moment, he’d thought he might have already lost.

“I have good reason to grow an enormous beard. I need to store all this love I have for you somewhere. It’ll be so long it’ll flow all the way to Ulstead and back! And there’s nothin’ you could do about it ‘cause it embodies all my love for you. How about that, beard-hater?” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Maleficent responded, her tone entirely flat, though her humour was evident. 

Their foreheads joined again for a time. Eventually, they arranged themselves so that she could lean back against him, seated between his legs. Her wings draped either side, the feathers spiking a little with enthusiasm whenever his hand would move to slowly caress her neck, her arm, and her waist. 

“How’re you copin’, Maleficent? What with Merin and all,” Diaval murmured, eager to hear her thoughts.

Maleficent sighed deeply. She reached beneath a nearby pillow and found a small bundle of cloth, which she unwrapped to reveal a pendant that Diaval immediately recognised. It was stone, smooth and carved into the shape of a raven’s head, hanging from thin leather. It belonged to Merin, he knew. He’d never seen her without it. A symbol of her status among the forest fae, or perhaps simply a piece of jewellery precious to her.

Gazing at it, Maleficent gently stroked her thumb along the stone raven’s meticulously carved neck feathers.

“I regret that our last interaction was an argument,” she said. “I took this from her before she was cremated. I wanted something to remember her by, but perhaps it was not mine to take.”

“I think she’d want you to have it,” Diaval responded firmly. “You were family. Old and beautiful things get passed down. Here.” Extending his hand, he took the pendant and brought it around her slender neck, shifting her hair aside to tie it off. “There. Maybe you didn’t part ways as you would have liked, but she loved you. Her love was measured in how often she would thwack you on the ankles with her staff. So, a  _ lot _ .” Reaching around her neck, he touched at the pendant now sitting at her breast. “She’s close to you.”

The faerie slowly turned to look at him. She touched at his cheek gently, a fierce affection there to be seen in her eyes.

“And you.” Her fingers came to the pendant to rest atop his. “The forest fae find themselves without a clan leader. I think that I must take the mantle, now, just as Merin did. And my father, and my mother. Perhaps I still have much to learn about leading others, and the Dark Fae themselves … but I must at least try. Now is not the time for them to be suspended in uncertainty.”

Through it all, Diaval was subject to an intense surge of pride quite suddenly. 

Of course Maleficent could not see for herself why, and she gazed at him with a degree of confusion when he smiled at her. Of course she couldn’t see. She had come so far that she didn’t even think anything of it, able to put aside her own anger and fears for the greater good. To consider what the right thing was and to act on it, not only to better her people but to better herself, too. She hadn’t needed Diaval to present what was probably wrong or right, to be her conscience. She’d done that well enough herself.

“What?” She asked him, raising her eyebrows.

“You’re gonna make an amazin’ leader, Maleficent.”

She smiled again, settling back against him.

“As are you.”

* * *

They spent the evening in each other’s company, each of them attempting to brighten the other’s mood. It proved difficult for Diaval, not to try and charm and cheer Maleficent with their usual back-and-forth, but to keep his thoughts focused. He was sure he had never felt quite as …  _ fragile  _ before, and he truly despised to liken such a word to himself. It was a strange, mortifying feeling that he had never known. Not even after coming home from Wickpon had he felt as though the next dire thought or stroke of bad luck might be the very thing to make him … what? 

It was confusing, too. His raven-self felt stressed to the limit, for it was such a creature’s closest approximation of what was occurring. A raven would feel stressed or grief-stricken if it was trapped, if it could not fly, if it lost a mate or a fledgeling. Now it was perpetual, and his attempts at humour and appearing brave felt more and more as though he was wearing a second face. One which might have once been his own but was no longer, a part of him stripped away and turned into a mask.

He didn’t feel like a  _ raven _ . And that was something of an upsetting and unsettling feeling, indeed. He spoke of it to Maleficent, and she understood it well; she had seen a swift shift in identity, too, over the past few years, going from faerie to Phoenix and now to clan leader. Dwelling on the future, the pair of them fell asleep in each other’s arms as snow began to fall outside across the mountains.

He awoke early in the morning to find Maleficent sat up and alert, her gaze somewhat unfocused. Scrambling upright in a panic, he peeped over the edge of the nest, expecting danger.

“It’s alright,” the faerie said calmly. “Percival has passed the border. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Diaval thought a moment, wondering why Percival would be arriving in the Moors - and then he remembered with a sickening lurch of his stomach. Oh, right. That was today. And he still hadn’t gotten around to telling Maleficent about the plan. Aurora had not told her, either, given Maleficent’s evident confusion. “It’s fine. He’s comin’ ‘cause I asked him to. Kind of. Actually, I asked Phillip, but Percival made sure Phillip wasn’t goin’ anywhere remotely dangerous.”

Brilliant choice of words, he thought.  _ Brilliant _ . 

Maleficent’s eyes narrowed at once when she looked at him.

“I suppose this has something to do with this idea of yours? Well, you might be so kind as to tell me what exactly you have planned,  _ and _ what is so dangerous about it.”

“Breakin’ the fairy ring,” Diaval said very quickly. Probably too quickly. He was still half asleep, and he found himself already on the receiving end of his mate’s ire. “The one in -  _ outside _ of Breoslaigh, I mean. It’s two leagues away from the city, so it’s not really that dangerous! If we break it -“

“You’ll end the curse,” Maleficent finished flatly. “I see. I find it remarkable, truly. You come home impaled with iron and now you’re off to save the humans again not even two days later.” She frowned and stood to step out of the nest, stretching her magnificent wings out behind her. “This honourable crusade of yours is going to get you killed.”

“Well, it’s … it’s not about the honour, y’know. It’s just -“

“The right thing to do.” She turned to him, the very picture of displeasure. “Sometimes there is no right thing, Diaval. You should not risk yourself.”

Diaval stood, too, regarding her with patience.

“I think there’s always a right thing, Maleficent. It’s just usually the most difficult route to take.”

She said nothing. Unperturbed, Diaval continued:

“It’s for the Moors, really. I mean, it’s for the humans as well ‘cause there are children sufferin’ in that place, but the sooner we get them and Perceforest of our backs, the better. They’ll turn against Orlaith if they know we’re helpin’ them, right? I imagine it won’t take a lot to put that idea in people’s minds. We’re just kindlin’ a spark.”

Maleficent’s eyes flared a little at that. She turned from him again, flicking out her wings and making for the exit to the cave.

“Give a raven tinder and he will learn how to start a fire,” she said in a vaguely ominous tone, and then she disappeared in a flourish of feathers.

Considering that a moment, Diaval dwelt on the meaning of it as he quickly followed her out into the freezing morning.

A white, heavy mist blanketed the mountains and drifted in ghostly fashion over the river below. Snow - horrible, detestable - glittered in the starlight of the burgeoning morning. The cold had come early this year, making its mark on the wilds by changing it so drastically it seemed like an entirely new world. Frost fairies and others like them revelled in it, while most others preferred to retreat to their homes in the trees and burrows and stay in the warm.

Maleficent took to the dark rock of the silent volcano not a few minutes from the nest. She descended gracefully down to the secluded place where they bathed in hot springs. By the time Diaval caught up with her, she was already undressed and in the water, running it through her long hair with her back to him.

“I’ll do that,” Diaval insisted when he shapeshifted again, already yanking off his boots before the transformation had even finished. Once his clothes were lobbed carelessly aside, he joined her and maneuvered himself between her wings to place gentle hands on her shoulders, lowering her down. “What was that? The tinder thing?”

“An old fae saying, I think.” With Diaval holding her back, she eased herself backwards into the water until her hair was submerged, then rose up again. There was not a trace of emotion on her face, which likely meant she was feeling a  _ lot _ of it. 

Diaval sought to brighten her spirits at once. He combed his fingers through her hair and carefully massaged her scalp, eager to provide an attention even more doting than usual as he tended to her.

“Sounds more like a warnin’ against ravens if you ask me,” he scoffed lightly. “Only slightly warranted.”

“That does seem to depend on the raven in question. I wonder if the saying might have an older origin. No doubt it alludes to raven’s intelligence, which has struck fear into even the gods, it would seem, who thought such a creature was doomed to take a gift and turn it into a weapon of destruction.”

“Lucky guess on their part,” Diaval muttered, pausing in his ministrations. “I’m not sure what you’re saying, darlin’. Proverbs are just words, aren’t they?”

“Ones that often hold truth, as we’ve seen. A raven carries wisdom, and thus possesses a great power: that of choice. There was one that ventured the path of evil and caused untold misery, as well we know. And now there is another raven that wields this power, one that was deliberately sought by evil for his goodness. Evil understands that good can be just as destructive.” Maleficent was watching him by then, her stare intense. “Good will walk into fire for the sake of others. He will wield it for them and light all the dark places of the world. He does not stop, even as parts of him begin to burn away. He does not stop, because evil never leaves. When there is nothing left of him, the fire spreads and destroys all the good he ever did. That is what evil wanted all along.”

Diaval gulped. Quickly, he turned her again so that he could resume rinsing water through her hair, reluctantly deliberating on her words. There was certainly truth in everything that she said, and he had never considered such a stance before now: that everything he was trying to do was part of the design.

“I understand. I’m only goin’ because I know the way. That’s all. We’ll go straight there and come straight back.”

“It’ll be better if I went.”

At that, Diaval froze, dismayed.

“No! I mean - Maybe it’s better if you don’t go near Breoslaigh. They’re covered in iron and they have guns, and -“ She was looking at him again, one brow arched, and he realised what she was doing. Disgruntled, he turned her away from him again. “Alright. Alright. It’s dangerous, but I’ll be fine, Maleficent! Iron has no effect on me, and I’m not gonna touch the fairy ring. We’ll be back before you know it. I think this … Maybe it’s the first step to getting rid of him once and for all.”

Maleficent turned again, regarding him with some ferocity. The way she touched him, however, was not ferocious at all. She leaned in and pushed him down, and her hands came to his face to gently hold it. Her eyes, despite the anger and fear contained within, were soft with glittering gold and framed with emerald green. Diaval’s train of thought was lost entirely.

“I should bind you in magical chains to stop you from going anywhere,” she said tonelessly.

Diaval blinked gormlessly at her, entranced.

“You could. If you wanted. Just maybe not today. Tie me up tomorrow. Treat yourself, you deserve it. Take out all these years of frustration and insubordination.”

Maleficent stared, unamused.

“I have no idea if you’re joking or not.”

“Me neither. Leanin’ towards not jokin’, though.”

“Stop trying to distract me. Idiot.”

“It’s not my fault if you like the idea of me all trussed up like a Christmas raven!”

His intention was to amuse her, but everything seemed to be having the opposite effect. She did not smile. After a moment of disapproving silence, she let go of him and turned away to tend to her own wings, her pale back rigid with irritation. 

“If you are not going to listen, you can leave. And don’t expect me to heal you when you return impaled with arrows again, or even to mourn you if you do not return at all. If you are so ready to place the interests of humans above your own, so be it.”

It took a moment, but Diaval knew better than to meet her anger with his own. He wouldn’t even have the energy to summon it. He knew that it was her way of expressing her fear, and she had every reason to feel such a way. She had every reason to be angry at him, and no amount of trying to joke around was going to help.

“I’m sorry,” he offered sincerely. “I am. For disappearin’ to Breoslaigh, and … I need to go through with this so that people aren’t frightened of me. So that the Moors and Aurora and our little ones aren’t brought down by this reputation of mine. So that you can be a leader without bein’ judged for bein’ with some demon-addled raven.” He swallowed again, and backed away to the edge of the pool. The words sounded truly idiotic when he spoke them aloud. “I don’t mean to sweep your concerns under the rug. I am listening, Maleficent. I’ll always be listenin’. I just need to find a way to help destroy him before it’s too late. He’ll be the thing to tear us apart. Not the humans.”

Maleficent’s wings drooped down into the water. She said nothing, and he could not see her face, but he knew that she was hurting and it killed him to be part of the reason behind her pain. That was precisely the thing he was  _ not  _ supposed to be. Was it necessity that saw him determined to leave her side yet again and venture to Breoslaigh? Was it selfishness? Why did the right thing suddenly feel as though it was not the solution he thought it was?

He couldn’t be this, but he couldn’t be a slave to Mori’ka like the other ravens, either. He wouldn’t bring his family the pain of seeing such a thing unfold.

He was not the monster Mori’ka was, and never would he be.

When he was clean, he returned to the nest, alone. Their conversation had not continued. He had not been able to think of a thing to say that might have helped, which felt quite unlike him. He didn’t really feel much like himself at all. With a heavy heart, he dressed and found his sword (just in case, of course), and made to leave for the castle, but he stopped to look at the tiny, finished nest sat ready beside their much larger one. 

He had to do something whether he had deserved the responsibility of it all or not. They were bringing life into the world, and now he was in a position to try and make the world a better place. 

He owed it to them never to give up, no matter what it took. He let that resolve flood the vacant space that had occupied his mind since the prior night.

When he left the cave, he was surprised to find Maleficent perched on the rocky ledge outside. Her dark dress billowed beautifully in the cold wind, stark against the pale, Wintery light of morning. She did not turn to look at Diaval, though did raise a hand and twirl her fingers with a shimmer of golden magic. It took him a moment to figure out what had changed, though realised at once when he took a tentative step towards her: she’d put him in heavy armour, probably the grandest attire that he had ever worn, silver with black embellishments and a grey, tartan cape that draped from his shoulder and hip. Plumes of raven feathers burst from the mantle at his neck and shoulders. Aurora’s crest sat on his chest, and he touched at it with the silver, sharp claws of his gauntlets in wonder.

”I look like Prince Charmin’!” He announced unsurely, awkwardly trying to bend his arms and legs.

”Don’t you dare complain. If you’re determined to go flying about in enemy territory, at least wear something better than a leather coat.” The faerie turned at long last, glancing about his form with something of an appreciative, if concerned, expression. “I said last night that you are stronger than he is. I truly believe it. You are not some demon-addled raven, you fool, you are Aurora’s Lord Chancellor and my consort, and you are those things for a reason. Break the fairy ring and return home at once.” Pursing her lips, she approached him and daintily ran her fingers about the chest plate. “How very handsome. Take care not to ruin it,” she added, something a bit dark and a bit playful in the manner she said it, though her gaze drifted thoughtfully away. “I didn’t mean it.”

”Didn’t mean what?”

”When I said I would not mourn if you if you didn’t return,” she said, a little too sharply. “Obviously.”

”Ah.” Amused more than anything, Diaval smiled. “I know you didn’t mean that. Princess Maleficent.”

Her eyes darted back to him.

”Excuse me?”

”If I’m a knight in shining armour, that makes you the princess! My Lady!”

”I am _not_ a - DIAVAL!” Maleficent screeched as she found herself being suddenly swept up into her mate’s arms. She clung to him for dear life as held her in bridal fashion, probably having never found herself in such a predicament before. She certainly made no real attempt to have him put her down, however, no matter how much she complained. Her complaints then swiftly turned to laughter when he carried her back into the cave and towards the nest. “Are you not supposed to be going somewhere?”

”I think Percival can wait half an hour.”


	14. The Weight of Time

Diaval hadn’t missed the stretching, dusty plains of Breoslaigh one bit.

If circumstances allowed for it, he would have gone there alone. As it were, he would not touch the fairy ring again in fear it would knock him out for the count for several hours, and he needed representatives with him in the event that they were seen. That way, Breoslaigh would know that the endeavour to help them was a shared goal between fairies and humans alike. 

Diaval still wasn’t sure how he felt about Percival, and it was clear it was a mutual sentiment. The man  _ had _ helped him escape from Ulstead’s dungeon and so he was willing to work with him as far as he needed to. What really got his goat was that the first faerie to offer their assistance that morning was none other than  _ Borra. _

Smirking. Smug. Somehow flexing without really trying. That wasn’t the reason Diaval didn’t want him there. Borra was as hot-headed as they came, especially in regards to all things  _ human. _ Still, Aurora had agreed to send him, probably for the faerie’s merits in battle. Just in case anything went wrong. Which  _ wasn’t _ going to happen under Diaval’s watch.

It was afternoon by the time the three of them reached a safe place to land. What felt to be in the middle of nowhere, they landed in a shallow ravine of beige stone to drink from the stream cutting through the middle of it. Percival took the time to stretch his legs; he’d been sat on Diaval’s back for a good amount of time, not quite as used to riding a griffin as much as he was a horse, though he spoke nothing of his discomfort and straightened up whenever either of the other two men looked his way.

When they’d drunk their fill, the three of them climbed up the ledge of the ravine and peeped over it, spying the dark stain on the land a small distance away that was undoubtedly the cursed mire. There were no humans around. Not even a shred of evidence for wildlife. The place was as empty and dead as Diaval remembered. Still, when he spoke, it was in hushed tones; the place still served to make him feel uncomfortable given the presence of a gateway to another world.

“There are bushes growin’ around it with little dead lookin’ berries. Percival, can you harvest as many as you can carry? They have this property that can fend off unholy beings, like the undead. Could be a useful weapon against the likes of the Feth Fiadha.”

“Fine,” Percival muttered. “Is that why I’m here? Harvesting?”

“No. You’re here just in case they see us. Then they’ll know Ulstead is sendin’ them well wishes.”

“And why’re you here, birdbrains?” Borra cut in. “I could have carried Percy here myself. In fact, I’d already be back in the Moors if I had come alone.”

“This place is enormous. You could’ve been flyin’ around for hours without me showin’ you the way, actually. Are you done gloating? Can I tell you what you’ll be doin’, now?”

Borra just shrugged and returned his amber gaze back to the mire ahead. Diaval gritted his teeth, though maintained his composure.

“Use your magic to break one of the stones and pull it out of place. That should be enough I reckon.”

“And who told you that, I wonder?” Borra said lightly, and he rose to climb over the edge of the ravine. When the others moved to follow him, he turned to walk backwards and watch Diaval in particular, his great, tawny wings dragging in the sand and dust. “The voices in your head? What  _ does _ it mean for you that a demonic father spirit is occupying your soul, by the way?”

“I don’t know. Should I ask him? Give me five minutes of silence and I’ll try it.”

“Not likely. I have to keep us all on our toes, after all. There’s every chance you’re leading us into a trap.”

_ That _ peeved Diaval. He snarled before he could stop himself, but Borra only laughed in response and stopped to give him a brotherly thwack on the arm. At least, he probably thought he was being brotherly, but Diaval was ready to peck him for what felt like the thousandth time that day already.

“Don’t get your feathers in a twist. They’re only little.”

“Tell me, Borra, did you come here today to help or because you saw an opportunity to entertain yourself?” Threw in Percival, and Diaval was secretly grateful for the assistance.

“Mostly the former and just a bit of the latter.”

“Tell me: have you ever said a nice thing to anybody in your entire life?”

Borra thought about that and exaggerated the length of time it took to come up with an answer. Turning his attention back to Diaval, he grinned and bared his fangs.

“I like the kohl. It suits you. Brings out your eyes. I’m sure Queen Orlaith will appreciate it.”

“I’m not sure about that, given that she’s bloody dead,” Diaval retorted dryly. “Try again.”

“Percival, I must remark upon your loyalty! How long did it take them to peel you away from Ingrith’s side, again?”

They had to stop. Diaval grabbed the back of Percival’s golden breastplate before he could lunge for the faerie, who pretended to cower in wake of the human’s rage. Before the two of them could insult each other further or get themselves into a poorly timed brawl, Diaval stepped between them and shook his head with displeasure.

“ _ Don’t _ . We’re here to help out the people in Breoslaigh and kill off all the conflict we can. We have to avoid trouble and get home as quickly as possible! Is that too difficult for you both? Or can we put aside our differences for ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes is a stretch, but doable,” Borra said with another careless shrug, and he grinned again. “Alright. Lord Chancellor. You’d better stay out of my way while I’m destroying the ring, though. I wouldn’t want to hurt this fragile raven body of yours - only because Maleficent would disembowel me herself.”

“You’d make a prettier sight after that, I think,” Diaval shot back, heading off towards the mire. “Tastier, too.”

With that, Borra laughed, albeit uncomfortably, and kicked up a dust storm with his wings as he flew ahead. Percival groaned and muttered something that sounded like  _ ‘birds’ _ under his breath.

The cursed place was much as Diaval remembered. There were patches of dead grass about the dark edges of the mire, which itself spanned a fair distance, its thick, goopy waters bubbling mysteriously. The sound was disgusting enough, but the smell was even worse. It smelt like decay, as though there was something enormous and very dead rotting underneath the water’s surface. 

Percival took to the shrivelled bushes underneath the tall, grey stones that stood in a ring around the mire. Quickly, he began to load the black berries into his pouch. Diaval took to standing a small distance away just in case the ring reacted to his presence somehow. When Borra landed next to the tallest of the irregular stones, they shared a nod, and the faerie lifted his gnarled hands into the air.

Another dust storm formed around the mire, but this one was denser and more concentrated. Borra gathered the winds and created a huge rock out of the sands blasting about the air, one with a pointed and very sharp tip. With a thrust of his arms, he sent the rock surging forwards into the stone spire, and he disappeared in a cloud of dust from the resultant  _ crash _ .

Concerned, Diaval quickly drew forwards, trying to see through the cloud.

“Borra?” He called.

It took a moment, but Borra eventually emerged with his arms folded across his chest in his usual self-satisfied manner. With a wave of his hand, he sent the clouds of dust away to reveal that the stone was broken and entirely toppled from its ancient perch in the earth, leaving behind a vacant hole in the ground.

It was sad, in a way. To hurt such ancient history felt to be a tragic endeavour. Archaic peoples or entities had put those stones there, likely not expecting them to ever be used for evil, and now the only option was to break a ring that had stood in that very spot for thousands of years. For the sake of Breoslaigh, it had to be done.

Diaval was disappointed when nothing really happened. There was no extravagant display of magic. The land didn’t seem to react at all. Had it even worked?!

Then, the dark waters stopped bubbling. Quite suddenly. The silence that followed was instantly unnerving. Even Percival stopped what he was doing, turning to regard the others with uncertainty.

“Is that good?” He asked cluelessly.

None of them had any idea. It seemed good that  _ something  _ had happened, but at the same time … they were messing with very old magic and land that was tainted by the Morrigan herself.

There was only one real way to see if the magic was departing. Steeling himself, Diaval moved towards the closest stone and gazed at the mysterious runes etched into its surface. Old Language, probably, but written in letters he could not read. Perhaps it was a good sign that he could not hear the whispers spoken in the ancient tongue of the wilds. It meant that the gateway to the Otherworld was likely severed. 

Just to be sure, he reached out and touched the stone, finding it cold beneath his palm.

He looked at the others. They didn’t disappear. Nothing happened. He breathed a sigh of relief. 

“I think it worked,” he said, reluctant to believe it too quickly, but the evidence was pointing in their favour. He couldn’t help the smile that came to his face, then. What a  _ relief. _ His idea - thus far - had actually worked. The mire wasn’t bubbling, which must have meant -

The water exploded.

They were all caught in a wave of it as it was suddenly regurgitated out of the mire with no warning at all.

Diaval was knocked straight off his feet as a hard globule of muddy water was blasted in his direction. Splatting on the ground, he found himself being washed away with the generous tide that flowed past the stones, weighed down just enough by the mud that it proved a brief panic and a struggle to free himself from it.

Spluttering, he rolled out of the black torrent and tried to crawl back to the others, hearing Borra’s laughter nearby. He wiped the mud from his eyes just long enough to see the faerie silence in apparent shock when the very ground began to tremble. The low, guttural growls of the earth were thunderous, like a great beast awakening from an ancient slumber.

Despite themselves, all three men ran to each other and held on as the earth shook beneath their feet. 

“What the hell is going on?!” Percival yelled over the din. “What did you do?!”

“I didn’t do anything! It was Diaval’s idea!” Borra growled.

Well, Diaval couldn’t argue that one. 

He was about to suggest that they fly away, but then he saw something on the ground that gave him pause even among the unfolding chaos. 

Grass.  _ Green  _ grass. It was growing at lightning speed as the corruption sank down into the earth to disappear. Growing outwards from the dips in the ground that was once a broad mire, it spread like wildfire around the stones and outwards. Ahead, the mire was filled from below with crystal clear waters. Diaval watched it all in stunned amazement, holding tightly on to the arms of his companions. 

The grass sprung up across the plains so quickly that it spread across to the horizon in a matter of minutes. Wildflowers and bushes sprung up alongside it, and then the trees rose from the ground in vast, powerful forests, born of seeds touched by a rejuvenating magic. It was like time itself was being reversed. The land was being restored to its prior state, and its wild beauty rivalled even that of the Moors. It was broad and green and genuinely magnificent.

The vibrant, emerald shades of Breoslaigh gradually faded to reds and golds as it ventured briskly through the seasons, settling on a beautiful, frost-coated setting. When the land was renewed, the shaking of the earth stopped, but it did not fall into silence.

There was birdsong. Somehow. Diaval wondered if the life there that was once interrupted by corruption had simply frozen in time, waiting for the time it would be free again. It was the only option that really made sense as he tried in vain to understand what had just happened.

It had … worked?

He blinked several times and wiped yet more muddy water out of his eyes. Borra and Percival were there, so this couldn’t have been a vision! Breaking the ring had actually worked - much faster than he’d ever expected - and the grand, beautiful forests of Breoslaigh were alive! It resembled perfectly the vision of the place he’d seen not too long ago.

Stunned by the sudden change in their surroundings, the three of them stared around themselves in sincere shock. Even Borra looked truly gobsmacked. As he listened to the rampant birdsong in nearby trees, unaffected by time, Diaval felt a burgeoning hope take seed in his heart. Perhaps even the beginnings of pride. He smiled, eager to relay the good news to Aurora and Maleficent.

“Well, well, birdbrains. It worked,” Borra said at last, sounding reluctantly impressed. With something of a more friendly glance Diaval’s way, he nodded. “Good job. Let’s go back, shall we?”

“Yes,” Percival muttered quickly, dabbing at a sheen of sweat on his brow. No doubt such an awesome display of magic had taken him more by surprise than any of them. “The king will need to hear of this at once.”

“Ah! And how is the old boy, these days?”

Borra was the one that spoke, but Percival looked at Diaval and politely inclined his head.

“Much better, thanks to Maleficent. And no doubt Diaval’s remedy helped keep things from getting worse in the meantime. He’ll be thrilled to hear that this was a success.” With a smile, he grasped the wrists of the others and looked about their idyllic surroundings in absolute wonder. “Thank you for bringing me here. It was an honour to witness it for myself!”

“We have Riordan’s great grand-ravens to thank for the remedy. Thank  _ you _ for coming with me,” Diaval said to both of them. With a grin, he took a step back and prepared to transform back into a griffin.

His heart fell.

The others stared at him with confusion.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to shapeshift again, but nothing happened. Not so much as an inkling that the magic was going to arise. Not a simple breeze, not even the shift of a single hair upon his head. Concentrating as hard as he could, he strained and tried his hardest to not fall victim to the irregularities in his power  _ again _ , because it could not come at a worse time.

“Are you, er …” Percival attempted. “Are you well?”

“My grandfather pulled a face like that. He died five minutes later,” Borra said matter-of-factly. “Horn-rot, so they said. Can I have your armour? Not to wear it, of course, but it’d make a nice trophy.”

“It’s not horn-rot! I don’t have horns! I can’t shapeshift. I’m stuck.” Gnawing on the claw of his thumb, Diaval resisted the urge to swear and curse, though only managed it for a few seconds. The other two raised their eyebrows at the string of profanity that emerged from his mouth, glancing at each other.

“Well, unstuck it,” Borra demanded. “I’m not carrying both of you.”

“I can’t unstuck it! I would have done it by now! Fly ahead to the Moors and tell Aurora that it’s done and it worked.”

“And leave you both to fumble around here on those pathetic little legs of yours? I don’t think so. Remember what we were saying earlier about disemboweling? I’m not going to beg for my life because you conveniently can’t shapeshift.”

“It’s not bloody  _ convenient _ , you -“

“Shut up,” Percival interrupted. His attention was not on them, however. He was looking up above the southernmost forest, and when Diaval followed his gaze, he saw a large, distant shadow in the blue sky. “What is that?”

It was some sort of winged creature, that was for certain. And enormous. None of them wanted to linger long enough to find out exactly what it was. Diaval found himself being roughly shoved back by Borra, startled to see the faerie looking so genuinely angry at him.

“Shapeshift!” Borra demanded again, his eyes turning a vibrant and terrifying yellow in his rage. “Come on! They’re not just going to sit twiddling their thumbs when these forests have just burst out of the ground, are they?!”

Diaval tried again, but nothing happened. Whether it was his panic or a sincere inability to do so wasn’t clear. With his eyes fixed on the growing shadow beyond, he gestured frantically at the others, coming to a slow and awful realisation as to what the creature might have been.

“Go. Fly! Quickly! It’s - ugh!” Interrupted by Borra grabbing the front of his breastplate, he was subject to an intense, furious stare and a threatening growl, right up in his face.

“ _ No _ . What is that?”

The shadow was positively enormous by then, and there was no denying what it was.

Whether a purely coincidental visit or not, there was no time to figure out how or why.

It was a dragon. The first and only true dragon that Diaval had ever seen.

Its colouring was red. The creature was impossibly large. The strokes of its great wings created gusts that nearly sent them straight off their feet. It opened its horned maw, and a torrent of fire surged forth and engulfed much of the forest below. Diaval could feel the heat even from where they were standing, watching in shocked dismay.

And the dragon was heading right for them, that swirling spire of fire aimed in their direction.

At once, Borra grabbed hold of Diaval and Percival’s arms and spread his powerful wings to carry them out of the line of fire just in time. They were first bathed in the shadow of the creature, which must have been twice as large as Diaval’s own wyvern-shape, and then the very world was alight in red and orange and black. And the  _ heat _ . It was unbearable. Surely no ordinary fire, but then, dragon’s fire was always more dangerous. Its very purpose was destruction.

The three of them landed in a heap a small distance away. Quickly leaping to his feet, Diaval saw that the pool of water had evaporated and the newly revived grass and plants were scorched. Trails of flame burned quickly along the plant life, consuming it all and sending flocks of terrified birds soaring off into the ashen sky.

The dragon was destroying it, he realised. It was ruining everything! Destroying the fairy ring would all be for nothing if everything was simply burnt to the ground! It couldn’t have been a coincidence that a dragon, creatures known for their rarity, appeared now of all times to undo their work. If Mori’ka was behind it, how had he  _ known _ they would be there at that time?

The answer was dreadfully clear.

Awash with cold realisation, Diaval froze. He did not initially hear the thundering of horse hooves becoming louder and louder. He watched the dragon as it turned about in the sky. It had them in a bottleneck between the trees, now. If they risked the forest, there was every chance they would burn with it.

But they didn’t have time to run or even fly. The dragon faced them, and it opened its mouth so wide that they saw into its very depths. From the darkness, fire billowed like an exploding star, so bright that it was blinding the closer it got to them. The heat was searing and was mere seconds from engulfing them whole.

It didn’t. The torrent of fire curved before it could meet its mark, biting into the trees of the wilds instead. Overhead, the dragon roared and swooped down to land, slamming so hard onto ground that the earth shook. Fresh from the prospect of being burnt alive, Diaval unfurled himself and looked at the dragon with terror, finding it lying down near the fairy ring with its burning, amber eyes set on them. 

The creature was ancient, without a doubt. Its brilliant, ruby scales were covered with scars and damage. Some of the wounds on its neck were still fresh and bleeding. It watched them with what could only be described as disapproval, huffing a stream of smoke out of its nostrils.

Drugian the Red. The very dragon of legend whose fire had destroyed the kingdom of Eastwend.

And then from the trees, humans emerged with their horses. Diaval recognised the leather armour of Breoslaigh’s soldiers at once. The woman at the forefront of them, too, was instantly recognisable in her red robes. Her hand was aloft and simmering with what appeared to be a fiery magic.

Siobhan Mograve. And it seemed as though she’d just saved them from the dragon’s breath.

Her dark eyes settled on Diaval. She looked just as stunned as they were. She swiftly dismounted from her horse and warily regarded the three men, her hand hovering over a small, lit lantern hanging off her belt. The soldiers, of which there were four, dismounted behind her with their weapons in tow.

“You,” she said, the lilt of her voice flat with shock. “Are you behind this? The forests? The crops in the fields?”

Though Diaval was struggling to conceive of everything that had just happened, he nodded. Shakily. His knees felt about ready to drop beneath his own weight. With his arms, he kept Percival and Borra positioned protectively behind him.

“Yes. Don’t come closer,” he warned, trying to sound more dangerous than he really felt. “We’re tryin’ to help you. This fairy ring was cursed thanks to the spirit controllin’ your queen. She must’ve sent the dragon here to destroy it all again.”

“No,” Siobhan murmured, wearing a strange expression. “She sent us here to capture you. She said the other kingdoms would try to hurt us today.

“That isn’t why we’re here. I swear it. We came to help. All of us - the Moors, Ulstead, Wickpon - we want to help your kingdom, not hurt it. Surely you can see what she’s doin’? What she’s been doin’ this whole time? Let us help you free yourselves of her.”

Though her eyes rapidly filled with tears, Siobhan laughed.

“Look at you! Always trying to help, aren’t you? Even where it is not wanted or needed. Breoslaigh does not need your help, and that you have disgraced our land with your filth is an insult. Do you hear me? We absolutely, irrevocably, do not need your help!”

There was a lie in her voice, blatant enough that Diaval could hear it. It was in her tearful eyes, usually so determined and steely. It was a lie that he was meant to hear and to understand, but not to acknowledge. So, he didn’t, save for the tiniest of nods when she looked at him again.

“The queen is coming,” Siobhan announced, turning to her subordinates. “Bind them, but not too tightly. She may want them undamaged. Do not use iron for the faerie, either.”

Diaval felt sick to his stomach. Orlaith was coming. There was nothing he wanted more than to run, but he would find himself being shot down or burnt to a crisp by the lingering dragon. Looking at the others, he found them likely deliberating those very options, too, though he feared they had not cottoned on to Siobhan’s plea for help.

“Don’t try to fight. They’ll help us,” he said quickly, and they both looked at him as though he were mad.

“Do you really think I’m going to let myself be captured by humans?” Borra spat, already spreading his wings.

“It’s better than being chased down by a dragon!” 

Baring his teeth, Borra slowly lowered his wings again. He shot looks of utter contempt at Diaval as he offered his fists and wings out for the young, terrified soldiers to bind in chains, but that he was wise enough to actually listen was a true blessing. Percival and Diaval remained silent, too, as they were bound. There was enough wiggle room in the chains that they could free themselves with some effort.

The soldier that was seeing to Diaval briefly lifted his helmet, exposing a freckled face that he recognised as being one of those who’d been in the infirmary the first time Diaval had woken up there. He was surprised to see a familiar face, and even more surprised when the boy actually winked at him.

“Bearfoot! Thought you were dead! Remember me? It’s Cadaver. So, were you really a werewolf all along? I have a bet to settle!” Before waiting for an answer, he leaned in a little. “She’s lying, y’know. We could do with some help. Orlaith won’t let our families leave the city. We’re prisoners in our own kingdom, man!”

“Shut up!” Siobhan hissed, but it was too late.

The boy appeared vibrant and alive one moment. The next, there was a loud  _ thwack _ and he jerked slightly. His face fell. He slumped into Diaval and then folded to the ground, the light having left his eyes almost instantaneously. There was a large arrow sticking straight out of his upper spine.

Everybody looked down at the poor boy in silence. Siobhan straightened her features at once and quickly wiped a tear away with her robe. The other soldiers quickly went to her, holding up their guns in order to guard her from yet unseen dangers.

Diaval stared down at the boy. Cadaver. That wasn’t his real name. It was a stupid nickname, because his identity had been stripped from him. And now his young life was stolen, too, and so swiftly. So sudden. He was just a  _ child _ . One that had never known true freedom.

The shapeshifter felt nothing but rage. There was no time for grief, or even for fear. Only anger, rising to the fore to overwhelm everything else. He trembled with it, was nearly blinded by it in a desire to shred the person responsible into bloody pieces.

And that person emerged from the trees on horseback not a moment later, lowering her elegant bow.

Orlaith. Her very presence seemed to drain the life from the world. She absorbed the very sunlight, stole it, disposed of it. Her slight form dismounted, and she paused to behold the three men bound within her sights.

Again, nothing could be made of her appearance through the long, black veil she wore. She was covered from head to toe in black. Not an inch of skin could be seen - likely because there  _ was _ no skin, and her dress clung to what was undeniably a skeletal body. It was only by dark magic that such a creature could stand and walk and thrive, because Orlaith had been dead for decades. If Diaval were able, he would have felt for the woman behind the veil being used for her power alone.

The soldiers did not look at her. Neither did Siobhan. They kept their eyes fearfully averted, but Siobhan looked desperately towards Diaval once Orlaith passed her.

Diaval did not see.

The person responsible for every single bad thing that had ever happened to him was closer than he could bear. It was a cold feeling. Cold even through the fires of rage. It  _ hurt _ . It hurt in ways he remembered as being agonising. Forced transformations, a spear in his back, nearly drowning in a frozen river. The fear in Aurora’s eyes as he failed to control his dragon-shape. There was endless anger. Grief. Self-doubt. He couldn’t touch Maleficent and she couldn’t touch him. There was death.  _ Merin _ . Tears of his family. Innocents slain by the undead. There was failure, time and time again. There was burning holy water, the contempt of humans, the knowledge that one day he might actually deserve it. There was the loss of his own name. His own purpose. One spirit had taken it all away.

And there it was.

Orlaith did not have to say anything. There was nothing that she could say. Diaval was filled with the blinding desire to tear her brittle bones apart and set her body free, and he  _ would,  _ he would destroy her to take something away from Mori’ka. And then he would burn the spirit for as long as he could, and he would revel in his shrieks of agony.

Nearby, the red dragon raised its head and growled.

“Diaval,” Percival said quietly, shifting in his chains. “Diaval,  _ don’t _ .” 

The shapeshifter did not know what it was everyone else could see. He didn’t care. For once, he didn’t care. He glared unblinkingly at Orlaith, smothering the pain her presence caused with anger, hot and fierce.

“No,  _ do _ ,” Orlaith said in her calm, unearthly voice. She sounded as one might imagine a ghost to sound when it talked, as though the words existed in another plane of being entirely. It wasn’t clear just who was doing the talking, either; it was the body of Orlaith, but Mori’ka had a far stronger hold over her than he did over Diaval if the púca were to be believed. 

“Do you think this is the best of ideas? Really?” Borra questioned her far too loudly, his own anger evident. “Let us go back to the Moors and I won’t destroy you for this, though I can’t promise I won’t come back later to finish you off once and for all!”

Orlaith’s veiled head turned slightly. If Borra struck any sort of fear into her at all, she did not show it.

“I have no desire to hurt a faerie,” she said, unaffected. “Even if you’re of Impundulu’s brood. You are a child of the first Phoenix. Behave yourself and I’ll let you return to your people.”

“Liar! You had Merin killed!”

“Yes, I did. She was unfit to lead the forest fae. She was too fond of humans for my tastes.”

Diaval was not convinced by the softness and the lack of cruelty in her voice. How could he be? Siobhan and the soldiers, too, still did not look at her, for they were too afraid. When the queen took a step towards Percival, Diaval snarled in warning and stood in front of him, aware that the life of a human was nothing in the eyes of the spirit. The body of the boy at their feet was enough evidence of that.

Orlaith moved no closer. She was undoubtedly looking at Diaval, now, her head slightly cocked. Raven-like.

“I was feeling strong today,” she said. The leather of her gloves creaked as her hold tightened on the bow. “Strong enough to see you again. You look troubled, brother. Everything that you feel …  _ I _ feel. So much rage in that little raven body. Sometimes I do not know if the rage is mine or yours. It’s a gift that we share, now. What we do with it is what makes us different.”

“Everythin’ makes us different!” Diaval spat back at once. His claws were itching to bury themselves in the creature’s body, but he had to restrain such a desire. He  _ had _ to return home. “We’re nothin’ alike! Let us  _ go _ .”

Orlaith just sighed. The air whistled through her rib cage.

“How very annoying you’ve been. Since the very beginning. I was like that, too. All I wanted was to  _ impress _ those I loved. A raven makes for a remarkably simple creature. It’s when we become men that we see the world for what it truly is. A threat. Nobody else understands, do they, Diaval? They don’t know what it is to be a beast in a man’s body, eternally prey to humankind. There is nobody else like you. You are not a raven, for they will not accept you. Nor are you a man, for they all hate you. Nor are you even a true púca, they are too strong for you. You are all alone. I felt that in you. Such a nice, yawning hole for me to settle into, and how vexing you have been ever since.”

“Vexin’,” Diaval repeated dully, even as his fists clenched. Every word spoken by the spirit cut him. It wounded him somewhere on his soul, and Mori’ka seemed more than eager to tear those wounds open with his own claws. “Everythin’ that you’ve done … you call  _ me _ vexing? Everything that you …  _ you _ . It was all you! Everything!”

“Everything,” Orlaith repeated mockingly. “Almost. I might have put ideas into that tundra girl’s head, but she was already weak with hatred. All I had to do was make sure the two of you met. I cannot be blamed for anything that she did. I was only ever a vision, after all. But … brother, deny me today and I will see to it that you are imprisoned with only her wretched soul for company.”

Diaval couldn’t see. He couldn’t think. Mori’ka’s words were the harshest of weapons and they were beating into him to make holes for the spirit to slip through. He felt suddenly light-headed, and his heartbeat pounded in his skull louder than thunder. He was vaguely aware of chains slipping down his body, and then he was moving. Towards her. Towards Orlaith. The sharpened claws of his gauntlets were inches from shredding into her body, but her hand wrapped around her throat.

“I will let them go,” she promised sweetly. Seductively, even. “They will not suffer your mistakes. All you need to do is let this rage free. For you. For these burning trees. You need it, don’t you? You need to let it go, just this once. Let the world know how strong you are. I will protect you, Diaval. You cannot escape it. Just let it go. We’ll send them a warning and then you will feel so much better. Stronger. Just like me.”

_ Just like me _ .

“I am not you.”

They were nothing alike. Mori’ka’s words were not caresses to his soul as much as they were knives. There was no truth to anything the spirit said. They were nothing alike. Diaval the man knew this, but the man was fading. A boy was murdered at his feet. He  _ hated _ . He hated more than he had ever hated before. He fought Mori’ka’s power as hard as he could, resisting the threat of a transformation that was not by his own will.

He wasn’t strong enough.

The moment he saw a white raven perched in a tree beyond Orlaith’s head, the world disappeared entirely, swallowed by the fire and the smoke and the smell of burning forest.

_ Come home. Come home. _

* * *

Aurora was becoming increasingly nervous.

She picked ceaselessly at a bowl of fruit as she walked about her court. Fairies of all kinds watched her, silent as they mirrored her nerves. Even the Dark Fae clan leaders and the púca seemed uncomfortable. They had seen a shift from confidence to worry in the hours that passed. It was now afternoon, and there was still no sight of her father, Percival, and Borra. 

Shrike was pacing formidably about under the watch of Nagual. Udo and Fionnlagh were sat together on a wall, decidedly calmer but no less worried. Maleficent was stood alone near the dais, her eyes fixed on the heavens. She would have been able to sense if Diaval was close, but she hadn’t said a thing yet.

It was taking too long.

Breoslaigh was not as close to the Moors as Ulstead was, but with wings as strong as Diaval and Borra’s, it would have taken them no time at all to reach the fairy ring and even to return once the deed was done. The longer Aurora waited, the more she wanted to panic. What if she had sent them straight into danger? What if something had gone wrong? Should she send others to try and find them?

The golden crown upon her head became heavier and heavier.

Just as she was about to consider which of the Dark Fae could successfully locate the others without being caught, Knotgrass and Thistlewit soared clumsily out of the Forest of Waking, both of them clamouring for her attention. Each of them tried to push the other out of the way, vying to be the one to relay the news.

“I’ll tell her! I’m the eldest!”

“No! You always tell her! Your Majesty, there is news from the trees of the -“

“The eastern border! The trees of the eastern border! They -“

“Their brothers and sisters across the river have been revived!”

Knotgrass folded her arms and sulked.

Everyone perked up at once. Maleficent made her way over and irritably waved the pixies aside with her magic, but Aurora caught them by their flowery dresses before they could drift away too far. With a brilliant smile, she looked up at them with hope.

“That must mean it worked! Mother?” She looked back at the faerie, beaming. “Breoslaigh’s land has been restored. They did it! They rid the kingdom of its corruption!”

The fairies looked at each other, and then they began to cheer, dancing and swinging each other about in the air. Laughing, Aurora watched them with enormous relief. The idea had worked! The first step of forming ties with Breoslaigh was complete! Exactly where they needed to go from here, she wasn’t yet certain. She’d spent the morning asking fairies about the whereabouts of the elusive Cumbrian Torch, but none of them knew anything about it.

No matter. Not yet, at least. They would find it, and they would navigate murky waters side by side with new allies. She was determined for that to happen. Overjoyed, she hugged her mother gleefully, though was immediately concerned to find the faerie unresponsive.

“Mother?”

As if she had not heard the good news, Maleficent was wearing an expression of sincere pain. And just like that, Aurora’s joy evaporated. 

She would never forget seeing her mother such a way. Just as she would never forget everything that came next.

Maleficent seized her by the arm and pulled her over to the castle. Taken by surprise, Aurora did nothing to stop herself being thrust into a room that was more secure than others given that it was not yet in ruins. She stared at the faerie in surprise, reaching for her when she tried to pull away and leave.

“Mother! What is it?!”

Before Maleficent could respond, a series of thunderous roars pierced the forests. If Aurora didn’t know better, it sounded like animals that were in pain, ensnared in traps, only they sounded far bigger than most things she had ever heard.

Most. She couldn’t let herself believe it. 

“Do not come out of the castle,” Maleficent commanded, a burning ferocity in her eyes. Suddenly, she was not the Guardian of the Moors and Aurora was not the queen. They were mother and daughter, a bond which took precedence over absolutely everything else. 

Terrified, Aurora nodded, though it pained her to see her mother walking away. Desperate to see what was going on among the court, she remained at the archway and stood on her tiptoes to take in everything going on. How annoying it was to be one of those in need of protecting! The only time she had seen such a look on her mother’s face was when they faced Queen Ingrith together at the top of Ulstead’s castle. The faerie’s eyes were a fiery gold, just as they were back then. There was nothing that could stop her. Nothing but love.

* * *

The roars sounded again. By then, the creatures responsible could be seen in the sky. Three of them, all of them flying low over the spread of forests. Their great wings brought them towards the castle at the speed of the very winds. It was clear what they were, obvious enough that fairies began to shriek and scream and dive for cover within the castle or in the trees.

“No!” Maleficent yelled thunderously. Spinning to the Dark Fae present, she gestured at the forests around them. “Keep everyone out of the trees! Gather as many as you can within the walls of the castle!”

The fae nodded fearlessly and took off at once, along with the púca spirits. They used their wings to bar fleeing fairies from the forest, guiding them to the castle, instead. Others sought as many as the hiding fairies as they could, carrying the smallest of them away from the crowns of the trees. The few tree warriors present did their part, too, carrying as many of their smaller kin as they could towards safety, though there was truly nowhere entirely safe in the presence of three dragons. 

The smallest of the dragons was white. Maleficent knew it was not acting of its own volition, now, but was bound to the will of a demonic master. The second largest, which was the most painful for her to see, was black, lost to the dark tides of draconic instinct and the desires of another. The largest creature was red and entirely unfamiliar to her, and she knew nothing of its true nature, but if Mori’ka was involved then it, too, was undoubtedly enslaved to him.

The world darkened when great shadows covered the castle and its forested grounds. With shrill roars, the three dragons approached from three separate directions, and they spilled devastating fire from their mouths.

The Forest of Waking and the Forest of Dreams were attacked viciously with it. Enormous, burning lines of fire erupted through the trees and tore at the grey sky. The dragons turned and flew in a circle around the woodland castle, and they breathed more and more fire until the castle was enclosed within a wide, burning ring.

The heavens quickly turned black with smoke. Screaming fairies were still flying out of the forests. The Dark Fae boldly remained among the danger, beating their powerful wings to keep the fires at bay while others escaped. Maleficent stood in the middle of the court and raised her staff, unleashing an explosion of golden magic that immediately healed any burns and quelled the worst of the flames. 

Baring her fangs, she spread her dark wings and took to the sky. Dragons, though powerful and magical creatures, were no match for a Phoenix. Hanging there between them a moment, she quickly tried to decide which of them to defeat first.

The white raven. Undead. Easy to kill and send back to Tech Duinn, but not easy to consider now that she knew for certain what it was.

Though it pained her, she went for the white dragon first, sending a spire of green magic into its pale belly. The creature’s deafening, ghoulish scream pierced the hearts of all that could hear it. It screamed and it screamed, writhing through the air, and then its body fell apart into clouds of white mist.

Turning abruptly, Maleficent soared to the red dragon. It was monstrous in size, and undoubtedly more powerful than the white beast in that it was a living creature and truly ancient. She could have destroyed it, but she had no desire to. Instead, she sent a powerful wave of green into its underside and sent it hurtling up into the air, and then with a wave of her hand, the dome of magic surrounding the Moors became solid. The dragon clawed at the swirls of gold, desperately trying to find its way through, but not claws, teeth, or fire could penetrate it.

Then she heard Aurora scream.

The queen was running out of the castle, as were hundreds of fairies, for the black dragon had landed on the stone spires and was crushing them beneath its claws. The creature crawled down the front of the castle and followed Aurora across the court like a serpent on the hunt, its amber eyes set on her and her alone. And then its mouth opened, and the glow of fire threatened in its belly.

Maleficent was there within seconds, lifting Aurora away just in time. She felt a magnificent heat at her wings and saw the court swallowed in orange light and swimming shadows.

They landed heavily. Aurora tumbled into the waiting arms of Udo, who surrounded her with his white wings. With a hiss of rage, Maleficent turned and lifted a hand, summoning magic upon the earth around the dragon until broad, powerful vines arose from the soil to ensnare its legs, its wings, and its snout. Wild-eyed, the beast toppled down onto its front, destroying yet more of the castle as it fell. 

Overhead, the red dragon toppled through the magical dome and found itself unable to move within a case of green magic around its body. Maleficent carefully controlled it, allowing it to soar safely down until it, too, could be bound in the vines and contained. The dragon was clearly terrified, heaving smoke through its nostrils, and so the faerie waved a hand and sent it into a deep, calming slumber.

And then a weariness of her own set in. Such inordinate amounts of magic quickly took its toll. She crumpled down to her hands and knees, restraining a cry of visceral sorrow. She’d known that something was wrong! She’d had an ill-feeling about the matter as soon as Diaval had told her about it, but she had not fought hard enough, hoping that it would work and that the Moors would be a step closer to peace. Maybe Breoslaigh’s lands were restored, but the Moors had not won anything.

Before she even realised it, Aurora had wrenched herself out of Udo’s hold and was running towards the black dragon slumped across broken castle walls.

“Aurora! No!”

But the queen would not listen. She threw herself across Diaval’s snout and beat at it with her small fists, wailing and crying.

“No! No! Father, why? Why?! Turn back! Turn back! Please!” Even when she found herself being pulled away by fae, she still struggled and wept, reaching for the dragon in desperate attempts to be close to it. “FATHER!”

Maleficent was there in an instant, pulling her daughter into her arms and holding her tightly. She held the queen as she wept, tears of her own spilling over her cheeks. 

Around them, the crackling of flame pervaded the sullen, shocked silence.  Spires of fire formed castles of their own among ancient trees.

Over Aurora’s shoulder, she saw the burning gaze of the dragon upon them both. Its narrow, slit-like pupils dilated as it focused on them. A fiery hot, molten liquid eased from the corners of its eyes, even if it likely did not yet understand why.

The púca quietly emerged from among their people, just as stunned as everyone else. They stared at the dragon with enormous fear, opening their wings to protect the fae in case it presented any more danger, but there seemed little risk of it, now. 

“Quell the flames,” Maleficent ordered blindly, hoping that the appropriate fairies were listening. “Search for any wounded, fairy and beast alike. Regrow the plants and heal the trees. Do not allow Mori’ka to win your fear. He must _never_ win.” 

Gradually, Aurora pried herself from her mother’s hold and silently went about helping the fairies in whatever way she could.

Maleficent watched over them all, keeping an eye on the two dragons bound in her magic. Hearing a ruckus emerge suddenly from the Forest of Waking, she turned to see Borra carrying Percival by the arms, and the two of them tumbled clumsily down into the court. They were covered in scrapes, bruises, and burns, but were otherwise unharmed - though Borra was so exhausted from his flight that he could barely breathe at all, struggling and shaking at Maleficent’s feet on the ground.

At once, she extended her healing magic to them both, and before long they were knelt before her, urgency in their eyes. Shrike appeared to pick Percival up onto his feet and embrace him so firmly that his bones crunched in her hold.

”You might like to know that the people of that kingdom are terrified of Orlaith,” Borra said, shrugging off his exhaustion and rising to his feet. “The entire kingdom is imprisoned. As much as I loathe to say it, Diaval was right. They need help.”

”Is it true that their lands are restored?”

”Yes. Breaking the fairy ring worked. Everything just ... exploded back into life. For how long Orlaith lets it last, who knows? She had no intention of letting us live, but the soldiers made sure we flew out of there while she was busy with, er ... this big, handsome dragon here! Look at the mess he’s caused!” Borra’s already weak smile fell at that as he looked around and took in the true extent of the damage. Looking at Maleficent, he bowed his horned head. “I believe this is her fault, Maleficent. Not theirs. He took us there to help them, but she already knew we’d be coming. She made mindless beasts of them all. All the same,” his cracked gaze drifted back towards the black dragon rumbling threateningly nearby, “you might want to reconsider just how much of your plans he knows from here on out.”

With that, Borra took off and joined his people in helping the frightened fairies.

Maleficent felt her power threatening at her wings and fingers. She knew exactly whose fault it all was, and she wanted nothing more than to fly to Breoslaigh and rip her limb from limb for this insult. For this _travesty_. No doubt it was all a showcase of Mori’ka’s power, how strong he was, how terrible he was, and perhaps it was an invitation, too. A dare to face him and destroy him, because he knew that while he occupied the soul of a loved one, he was near enough invincible.

Even she was not strong enough to do it. Not alone, and not while the magic of the Otherworld was still a mystery to her.

But she would learn, and the Moors _would_ win.


	15. Severed

The Moors was painfully silent that evening.

The forest fae worked to aid the burnt forests, but the damage was extensive and took several long magical rituals to even touch the tip of the iceberg. The other fae were still recovering terrified fairies and taking them to the castle, or taking the injured to Maleficent to heal.

Aurora directed them all as efficiently as she could. Even hours later, her heart was still pounding in terror and she caught herself looking fearfully up into the sky in case the attack wasn’t over. Part of the intention of the attack had clearly been to either kill her or terrify her into submission, but while she was scared, she was also enraged. Stubborn, and not at all impressed with Mori’ka’s show of his growing power.

It seemed the demon did not want to destroy the Moors, but he  _ did _ want to destroy humans, of which she was one. No doubt her role as queen in his former home was insulting to him, which Aurora took in her stride. It was strange, however; with three dragons at his command, he could have sent them to Ulstead, Perceforest, and even Wickpon, and he could have destroyed them. No, the monster was intent on manipulating the humans until they destroyed themselves, which to Aurora suggested that in his reluctance to face them head on, he was still  _ frightened _ of them. The attack had been a show of fear as much as it was meant to intimidate.

They still had a chance.

When the sun was setting, Aurora found Maleficent sat by the body of the red dragon. Diaval had been moved to rest next to it, his eyes wide and growls rumbling threateningly in his throat whenever somebody came too close. Aurora made sure to give him a wide birth as she made her way to her mother’s side. 

Maleficent had a hand on the red dragon’s neck. There were large wounds there, which she healed carefully with soothing, golden magic. The creature was no longer asleep, though did seem to exist in a pleasant daze, apparently enjoying the magical attention being lavished upon it. Aurora watched it with a degree of wonder, though kept a hand on the hilt of her sword, tightly gripping it whenever the dragon so much as twitched.

“It’s alright,” Maleficent said, observing her daughter’s fear. “I have seen into her thoughts and memories, and she bears the Moors no true ill will. She has been forced into doing the bidding of dark entities for hundreds of years, and is hurt when she does not comply. She is very confused.”

That surprised Aurora, who had always thought of dragons as being creatures of unbridled rage - and, indeed, they could be, though perhaps not without reason. That a dragon could actually feel something like remorse came as a shock and made the situation even worse. Though Drugian had attacked the Moors, it wasn’t of her own volition and she’d been tortured by Breoslaigh for only the gods knew how long.

“What do we do with her?” Aurora asked nervously. She very cautiously reached out a hand and put it on the dragon’s snout to gently stroke it, feeling along the deep scars in the ruby scales. 

“I’m not sure. I doubt Mori’ka intended that she be caught. I may show her to the mountains so that she can decide if she makes a new home here where it is safe. There is nothing there that can hurt her.” Maleficent glanced at her daughter, considering. “If you would permit it, of course. I can always command her to return to the mountains far in the east.”

“No,” Aurora said at once, surprising herself with her vigour. “This poor creature is not to blame for what happened. I think she will like it in the mountains here, and when this is all over, maybe she will be free to return home.”

Maleficent nodded. With a snap of her fingers, she sent the dragon into another deep sleep.

The pair of them moved to Diaval, then - or the black dragon, for there seemed to be yet no semblance of Diaval within it. Aurora was more cautious, standing back a little distance. This dragon was the one to almost kill her, after all. Maleficent showed no fear, however, standing at the side of its head and touching at its horned temple. She closed her eyes as her magic travelled in and about the dragon’s head.

It took a small moment, but she opened her eyes again and she frowned deeply. 

“What did you see? What happened?” Aurora pressed nervously. 

Maleficent’s lips pursed. She was angry, undoubtedly, but the dark cape of her wings drooped with sadness. 

“Mori’ka knew they were going. Diaval faced him before he was ready and paid the price.” Pained, the faerie turned to Aurora, a hand lingering on the scaly arch of Diaval’s brow. “He is done. He goes no further than this, Beastie, not just for him but for the cause we fight. To maintain secrecy, we must hide our plans from  _ all _ ravens while Mori’ka has a hold on their souls.”

Agonised, Aurora finally drifted forwards and met the nervous eye of the dragon. It wasn’t fair. Having to renounce yet another title would break his heart. Worse, once he realised what his claws and fire had done to his own kingdom … well, what would happen? How well could such a kind soul come to terms with it? He would be beside himself, she knew that much, and what with everything else … she feared it would be the thing to destroy him.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and smiled as best she could, gently stroking at his sharp cheekbone and peering unwaveringly into his great, amber eye, which searched her in turn with a primal intelligence.

“You did your best today,” she said soothingly, tears rampantly building up again. “You helped Breoslaigh, father. You’re so clever. It really worked. And … I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t …”

The dragon shifted, growling with discomfort. A mysterious wind began to tug at Aurora’s hair, and she thought her heart might stop with the prospect of what was coming.

Freed from the magical vines, Diaval disappeared into swathes of shadow. His shape simply vanished for a few moments, and then he reappeared within the dark magic, shifting through various forms as he stumbled clumsily about - a bear, a wolf, a stag, and then finally a man, folding down onto the earth at Maleficent’s feet with a deep groan. His silver armour was scuffed and his pale face was covered with dust.

Aurora fell to her knees beside him at once, clinging onto him in a desperate attempt to distract him from the destruction strewn about the clearing between the forests. Before them, the broken castle pierced the darkening, winter sky, and fairies sat despondently while they recovered. Some of them were watching them, keeping their distance, their little eyes alight with fear.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t  _ fair _ .

She saw him look down at the silver claws adorning his fingers. Looking up, she was devastated by what she found: a face that was as grey and waxen as a corpse, slackening as though the death blow was finally struck through his very heart. She tried to insist that it was alright, it wasn’t his fault, but she soon went unheard through tragic howls of what sounded like a thousand years of a crippling grief and pain.

And so it was that the pillars of the Moors trembled in wake of a brother being struck down.

The shadows between the trees watched in silence.

* * *

The trees recovered. No lives were lost, though it had been touch and go with a few unaccounted for fairies for a while. Thankfully, thanks to sleepless endeavours of Maleficent and her people, all fairies were recovered and healed over the week that passed.

And more weeks passed where nothing happened at all.

They were no closer to finding the Cumbrian Torch because the knowledge was lost to the descendants of those who had hidden it thousands of years past. It was no clearer what the artefact was, nor where it was most likely to be within the Moors. The fae and the púca scoured far and wide to no avail. The elusive torch of legend, once wielded by Mori’ka in a quest to save the humans from rampaging undead, was buried in secrecy.

There was no word from Breoslaigh despite the enormous changes to their kingdom. The watchers on the eastern borders of the Moors relayed that the lands on the other side of the river were still lush with forests and springs and wildlife, probably because there was no dragon to burn it all down. Breoslaigh, as always, was silent, and Aurora feared what was going on behind city walls. The thought of it kept her up at night. While the fairies were frantically searching for the torch, people were suffering in the thrall of the Veiled Queen.

How long did they have? When would the spirits of the undead recover and charge upon the mortal realm again?

To pass the time and vent her frustrations, Aurora practised her sword fighting as the Winter months went. She trained with fairies, grass dummies, and Phillip whenever he was able to slip away from Ulstead, and the more she worked, the stronger she felt herself becoming. She didn’t get out of breath so quickly, now. She was able to hold her ground instead of falling over whenever Phillip gave her a shove. Her muscles didn’t ache quite as much, but when they did, she found herself relishing it. The burn of it was proof of her progress. Two months after the attack on the Moors, Aurora struck Phillip to the ground for the first time and held the blade of Maeve to his throat.

They smiled at each other. Hopeful.

Maleficent, too, was practising in a new art of her own. As Aurora understood it, she was attempting to reconnect with a sort of magic lost to her and most others. Otherworld magic, something so archaic and ancient that the púca were the only ones who had any sort of semblance of what it truly was: the magic of the wilds, souls, the gods, and the infinite beyond, something from which the Phoenix had been severed long ago. Aurora sometimes joined her mother when she went to the púca to learn how to touch upon what they described as  _ the very soul of the earth, _ and the queen discovered that the kingdom she ruled had a very life of its own. There was a voice that had gone unheard for millennia, because there were no humans or even fairies listening.

Maybe she herself would never be able hear it when it spoke. She could not feel the darkness that the fae spoke of, but she could see the effects of it well enough. The world was dull. Even in Winter, the Moors was not usually as lacklustre as it was now. The animals had less energy. The fairies were more prone to sorrowful moods. That was a language Aurora could understand, and she did everything she could to bring light and cheer into the lives of her people, even by more superficial means like parties and feasts and plays. It all  _ helped _ . 

But often it stung, too, whenever she realised that her parents were not there. Maleficent was usually off deep in the woods to meditate (and consequently losing her patience at one point or another), and Diaval … while he’d spent a little time in the care of the forest fae, he’d since disappeared and had not shown his face in court since.

But whatever was going on in his mind, he made sure that his presence was still felt. Aurora would sometimes wake up to find a little pile of sweet berries or glittering treasures near her bed, and a black feather or two so she’d know who left them, as if there were any question. He understood, at least, she did not want him to stay away, but it was currently for the good of the Moors if he was as uninvolved as possible. She wept for him, she truly did. The poor raven must have felt so alone, so ashamed, when what he deserved was to be loved and revered for everything he had given.

Though she missed him and his counsel dearly, she could not let the strength of her rule weaken. Thankfully, the fae clan leaders and the púca chose to remain in the Moors to lend their advice and assistance, which served to fill something of the void left behind. They were, of course, invaluable friends and leaders, though their understanding of human politics did often leave something to be desired.

Those two months after the attack on her castle, Aurora dressed in a white lacy dress and adorned her shoulders with a silken cloak of pale pink, decorated with enchanted flowers. Fairies danced about her head, weaving yet more flowers into her flowing locks of golden hair. The Moors was expecting another visit from Phillip, and this time, he was bringing his father with him. It was first time she’d see the king since the day of his poisoning.

That morning, she stood waiting at the top of the hill her castle crowned. A fine carriage emerged from the pathway into the Forest of Dreams. With a radiant smile, she ran down the hill and threw herself into Phillip’s arms the moment he opened the door. 

From the other side came King John, bouncing a happy looking Riordan in his arms. Releasing Phillip, Aurora bound up to the king and hugged him, too, almost knocking the crown from his head in her eagerness.

“Oh! Hello, my dear!” The king greeted fondly. “What a beautiful day in the Moors it is! Spring is just around the corner, no? How on earth have you been?”

“Well …” Aurora trailed off, not entirely sure how to answer that.

Spotting her struggle, Phillip was graceful enough to butt in.

“We have news, Aurora,” he said, taking young Riordan from his father’s arms. The boy waved his grass doll happily amidst his family. “Big news.  _ Good _ news. We also brought that gift we had made for Maleficent. Will she be joining us?”

“So it seems,” said a dry voice nearby the carriage. Maleficent herself, to everyone’s surprise, emerged from the trees, utterly beautiful as usual and dressed from head to foot in fine, black velvet. It fitted snugly to her form, showing off well the two-and-a-half month old gentle bump of her belly. “Good news? Whatever next?”

“Ah! Maleficent!” John greeted amicably, rushing over with a smile. Taking the faerie’s hand quite boldly, he bowed down and pressed his forehead to her knuckles. “I’d be quite, well …  _ dead _ , if not for you. It seems that I owe you my life perhaps a second time over.  _ Thank _ you.”

“Hm.” Maleficent arched an eyebrow, turning her startling gaze towards Phillip. “You owe me nothing but justice.”

“Ah. Yes. Indeed. That’s partly what we’re here today to talk about.” With a smile, John straightened and gestured towards the newly repaired castle. “Shall we?”

Together, they headed up the hill and past the streams. Maleficent took charge of Riordan, holding him out in front of her and tilting her head.

“He is getting so very big. He will be tall, like his father. Do you know your letters yet, Riordan?”

Aurora laughed, watching them both fondly. 

“He’s only just learning to talk, mother.”

“Oh. Well, what words can you say, child? Can you say Maleficent?”

“Ma,” Riordan babbled happily, swinging his legs. “Fifi!” He giggled. Reaching for her, he touched curiously at her pointed ear when he was brought into her chest, and then felt about her horn.

Aurora laughed again, amused by her mother’s awkwardness about the matter. 

“You can spend more time with him if you like. It’ll be good practise.”

“Oh!” John exclaimed, hurrying to Maleficent’s side. “My dear, of course! I do believe congratulations are in order. How wonderful. Well, I should love to meet them when they are born. Babies are just the most adorable little things, though indeed, I have never seen a baby faerie. Or - halfling, or whatever they might be -“

“Father,” Phillip said pleasantly, an edge of warning in his voice.

“Pardon me. Erm …”

“Of course you can meet them,” Maleficent replied with measured patience. “I should like to think they will be, as you say … adorable.”

Aurora and Phillip glanced at each other and fought laughter.

When they reached the castle, they arranged themselves inside as to avoid the chilly drizzle that had since started falling. Aurora led them into what had once served as a grand dining hall, though part of the ceiling was caved in and covered with moss. The soft light of day that streamed in through the gap was pleasant enough. They settled on stumps and stone stools placed here and there.

“So,” John said amicably, dropping his hands down onto his knees. “Where to start? You go first, Phillip.”

At once, the prince stood and reached into the satchel hung across his shoulder and produced an item wrapped in thick cloth. Freeing it, he held a beautiful golden breastplate up for Maleficent to see. It seemed crafted to fit a more female form, though not insultingly so; it was lightweight, built for flight, and - thankfully - adjustable. Aurora knew for a fact there was a recent redesign on the piece following news of Maleficent’s pregnancy reaching Ulstead.

“I know you can create such things yourself, but we wanted to give you something made by our people, just as Aurora and Diaval received swords. It was specially designed to protect you from high speed projectiles. It doesn’t  _ look _ it, but it does work,” Phillip insisted nervously. “There is no magic here. Just some human ingenuity. Though, I’d rather you never have to wear it. That would be a gift in itself.”

Maleficent didn’t seem sure what she should be feeling. Gazing at the breastplate, she did manage something of a smile, even if it appeared more pained than anything.

“Oh. How generous,” she said, and then remembered her manners at the last second. “Thank you. Yes. I will be sure to wear it if the need arises. It will prove useful if I find myself at the other end of a gun again.”

The statement was made so flatly that it was apparent Maleficent did not quite understand why an uncomfortable silence followed. Looking away from them all, she bounced Riordan on her lap and let him play with the rings on her fingers.

“Yes, uh … I did mention that to the smith,” Phillip murmured, lowering the breastplate down onto the vacant stool next to Maleficent. “He worked hard to create something that could prevent that from happening again. I’m glad that it suits your needs.” He sat back down, then, still appearing rather taut. “You’ll be pleased to know that the men responsible for attacking Diaval all finished their trials recently. I presided over every one, as you wanted. The first count was unlawfully harming a protected species within the kingdom of Ulstead, and then … everything else. Their duties are suspended and they are serving a sentence behind bars.”

Aurora knew just how long that sentence was, and it wasn’t anything that Maleficent was going to find satisfactory. Phillip was being admirably careful with his words. The truth was that none of the lordly powers in Ulstead had wanted a severe sentence, for the guards had believed they were acting in the interests of the city and their families. The prince did the best he could, but nobody else had the Moors’ interests at heart.

It angered Aurora to no end, but she had no power in Ulstead. Even the king could not overrule perceived justice. Inner conflict was not something Ulstead needed, and it would certainly happen if the guards were doomed to spend their days in dungeons. It all came at the expense of Diaval never quite having justice of his own in the matter, but she knew, she  _ knew _ that he would insist the conflict among humankind wasn’t worth it. Not when was what Mori’ka wanted.

So, as much as it pained her, she swallowed her grievances and pretended to be satisfied with the outcome in the presence of her mother, who she knew must have restrained herself greatly not to tear those men responsible apart with her own claws.

Maleficent’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing of it.

“What else?” She demanded. “What other news?”

King John actually wiggled in delight, clapping his hands together.

“Yes! Prepare yourselves, my dears. This recent development came to us this morning in the form of a letter from a certain Marigold Hill. Who is that, you ask? None other than the daughter of Edmund Hill himself, that greasy blight on humanity that visited us as Perceforest’s envoy that day, if you recall.”

“I recall,” Maleficent said shrewdly.

“I’m sure. After some investigating, it turns out the attempt on my life was indeed the result of Perceforest interfering with a delivery from the town of Wilton. Diaval was right, their kingdom’s forests are notorious for deadly nightshade. A farmer in Wilton claims he saw unfamiliar faces skulking about, and they left south towards Perceforest. I was quite relieved that this does not have to come to blows, however. Edmund Hill positioned himself an authority over the council that governed their kingdom, and is proven guilty of attempted murder by the letter sent to us.”

Aurora watched him, mostly confused but also somewhat amused by the way the king spoke so breezily of his own near-death. She glanced at her mother and found her looking equally lost.

“Marigold Hill is none other than Edmund’s own daughter. The girl can’t be more than eighteen, but she’s been rallying the dissatisfied and poverty-stricken people of that kingdom for months, apparently. Last night, she overthrew her father and has sort of … laid claim to Perceforest.”

Well, she hadn’t been expecting that.

Stunned, Aurora just stared at both John and Phillip as though they’d just told her a remarkably elaborate joke. 

It wasn’t that she  _ wanted _ Perceforest. She had nothing but bad memories of that place, and the mere thought of it alone reminded her too much of Stefan. It still came as a surprise that the kingdom had achieved something without external intervention, and indeed, that there was suddenly a new leader in place that nobody had heard of until now.

“I …  _ what _ ?” She managed, looking between them both. “Why?”

“It seems her father mistreated her and kept her locked up in her room for years, but she snuck out of her window every night to be among the people, according to her letter. The council is no more and it was, erm … implied that her father is very, very  _ dead _ . I am not sure she was extending a hand of friendship, exactly, but does seem keen to protect the kingdom from any sort of invasion or outward influence. I take that to mean she is resisting their former allegiance to Breoslaigh.”

“But what if it’s a trap? What if he isn’t really dead and is trying to lure people there?”

“Well, I thought that, too, until I opened the unassuming little pouch that accompanied the letter. It was, um, a severed finger bearing a ring with Stefan’s sigil. One of Edmund’s.”

Aurora’s head felt fit to explode.

Edmund Hill was a vile man. She felt no sorrow that he was apparently dead and his body parts were being delivered about in the post. What made her somewhat nervous was the tenacity of such a message, the formidable nature of a leader that had arisen from the dark cruelty of Perceforest’s streets and towers and already done more for the kingdom than Aurora ever could have. At the same time, it was almost … a  _ relief _ , that Perceforest was occupied by leadership that actually cared about its people, unlike the council that had formed over the years.

It was a battle Aurora thought she was going to fight somewhere down the line when the business with Breoslaigh was over. She thought she would have to reclaim her former kingdom, and her bloodline would have enabled her to do that. But she didn’t  _ care _ for her bloodline. Stefan was an awful person obsessed with glory and revenge, and her grandfather, the king of Perceforest before him, had caused the Moors grief time and time again simply because he hated fairies.

Her link with Perceforest was not entirely broken, and never would it be. She still felt a responsibility for it, and felt guilty for the struggles they faced. That somebody else had actually denied her link and claimed the kingdom would have been an insult in any other situation, but the letter to Ulstead was a suggestion of no true ill will towards the united kingdoms. 

“Are you going to respond?” She asked John unsurely.

“Yes, though I thought I’d run it past you, first. It might be a good idea to invite this Marigold either to Ulstead or the Moors so we might establish a tenuous link, as it were. If we have Perceforest on side, it will prove to Queen Orlaith that her efforts to disestablish mankind’s kingdoms will not work.”

Aurora considered that. She thought of the misery the council had wrought. She thought of the Feth Fiadha. She thought of the burning trees of the Moors. And she thought that forming bonds with a stranger just might have been worth the risk if it meant saving lives and overthrowing the evil ruling Breoslaigh.

“Alright,” she said, sounding more confident than she truly felt. “Invite Marigold to the Moors. She can bring no more than ten men, and all iron must be left behind in their city. I will meet with her just beyond the Stone Guardians in three days.”

Turning, she found her mother gazing at her with uncertainty.

“Aurora, you are at too much risk.”

“It’ll be alright.”

Maleficent’s eyes hardened.

“That was what your father said before he left for Breoslaigh those months ago. If you must meet her, then I will be coming with you and so will the forest fae. The Moors will not suffer another disaster.”

Aurora nodded. She, too, was determined that nothing the likes of which they suffered before would happen again.

Though she was determined, she remained concerned. There was the chance to reunite with a lost kingdom again, and the hope she felt was undeniable. However, there was still no clear solution to defeating Queen Orlaith herself. Aurora refused to include Maleficent in the mix whenever she considered potential forays into Breoslaigh to retrieve the flame. There was too much iron, too much danger, even with the projectile-proof breastplate. For all they knew, Maleficent might have been unable to escort the flame herself. The only true course of action, according to Fionnlagh, was to unite it with the mysterious Cumbrian Torch.

But they were no closer to finding it, and time was running out.

* * *

Maleficent awoke deep in the night, and she wasn’t alone.

She’d had to become accustomed to an empty nest as of late. Diaval’s rogue transformations were the worst they’d ever been following his brief clash with Orlaith, sometimes even shapeshifting him in the middle of his sleep as he dreamt. For the safety of Maleficent and their children, he chose not to sleep in the nest at all. 

It was hardly the first time she’d been without him, but it was no less difficult. In fact, it was worse now that she knew he was close and that her contact with him had to remain somewhat limited for the Moors’ sake. There were times he avoided her, she knew, for he was still laden with shame and devastation. He was in pieces, fragments of him revived for mere moments, only for the light to die again and he would scamper off into the forests to disappear for days at a time.

And so it came as a surprise to find a raven huddled in her feathers that night, the matted creature watching over her in dutiful manner, ever the cave sentinel. There was a pale coating of frost upon his wing feathers, so she reached for him and tried to urge him closer, but he backed away with an indignant croak, lowering his stance in a show of submission. 

“Can I not even touch you now?” She asked of him, sitting up with a frown. “I haven’t seen you for three days. What have you been doing?”

The raven found himself displaced from her wing, and so he hopped away and fluttered up to the very edge of the nest, where he continued to peep at her. With his beak hanging open, he made a series of popping and clicking noises, bowing his head every now and then and turning a full circle. Maleficent would have taken it to be an attempt at raven-style seduction were the situation different. For now, she remained uncertain and considered that it was approaching the time of year his behaviour would alter somewhat. He must have been confused, saddened and fearful following his encounter, assuredly, but just as prey to his raven instincts.

She watched him with concern, leaving a wing open in a gesture of welcoming and invitation, but he did not go to her again. He paced about the edge of the nest in evident distress, still making the sounds he usually reserved when he was trying to impress her.

With no idea how to help him or what to do, she sent him into sleep.

She stared at the bundle of feathers before her for a long while, watching the swift rise and fall of his chest. She knew that in a heartbeat, he could turn into a dragon and destroy the cave with his size alone. He could hurt himself and her. She should have put him outside, but she couldn’t; she knew how much he hated being a wolf or a dog, and so she would not treat him like one. 

Fionnlaigh’s attempts to guide her in the realm of Otherworld magic had not yet yielded any sort of information on how to deal with something as fragile as a soul. She could understand the speech of the trees better, she could sometimes hear the whispering of Old Language in the ancient places of the Moors, and she certainly felt closer to the land the more she let herself become attuned to it, but she struggled to fathom how to remove something as powerful as a demonic spirit from a soul without something going wrong.

She’d already tried it. When Diaval was asleep one night, she’d sought him in the woods and tried to delve deep enough into his spiritual being to pry the taint of Mori’ka’s essence away, but she couldn’t. A soul in a body was of different form to one freed. It was … impenetrable. The most secret place of a person. Their own gift from the gods. 

There must have been a way to unlock it without tearing it free. Maybe she was not learning quickly enough. There had to be something, because time was running out and she was the only one that could help him, now. She’d given him time and love and never would she stop, but thanks to Mori’ka, he needed something more. She owed it to him to find a way, just as he had done the impossible and found his way into her wounded heart.

She slept with him beneath her wing, protecting him from the cold.

By the morning, he was still there. Still a raven, resting in enchanted sleep. She took him into her arms and left the cave, flying only as far as the bubbling river that cut through the mountains. Kneeling, she woke him from his sleep and carefully held his beak to the water so that he might drink his fill.

Thankfully, he made no effort to fly away. He righted himself once he gained his bearings and hopped down to the river’s edge. Not a moment later, he was shapeshifting and reappeared from the shadowy magic as a man at long last.

He was very dirty and very naked, but still a man. Maleficent cast her gaze down his form.

“You seem to have forgotten your clothes.”

Diaval glanced down at himself, too, as if only just realising. Maleficent wondered how long it had been since he’d last worn his man-shape. Given the confusion and the feathery messiness of his hair, it had been a good while.

“Er …” he rasped, scratching his head.

“No matter,” Maleficent added quickly, taking a tentative step towards him. Turning to the side, she flattened the silk of her nightdress against her belly until the bump there was clear for him to see. “Look. Have you noticed? I am getting rather round, don’t you think?”

Diaval stared, swallowing heavily.

“Amazin’,” he croaked sincerely, ambling forwards through the grass. “It’s beautiful, Maleficent. You’re …” Diaval dropped down to his knees before her, very cautiously raising his hands until they rested on the gentle curve offered to him. “Look. Our little babies. Hello, darlins. Hello, my little beans. Papa loves you. I love you so much.”

He rested his head there, and Maleficent buried her hands into his hair, fighting to remain composed. When he looked reverently up at her, she smiled at him.

“I love you, Maleficent. I’m sorry that … I -“

“Don’t. We have been through this, Diaval. You are not to apologise for a thing.”

“I know, but …” His forehead pressed gently to her belly again. “I miss you. It’s maddenin’ out there. I’m just … I’m just an animal again. I should be here watchin’ your belly grow. Watchin’ over Aurora. I can’t do any of it. I can’t …”

“Can’t you?” Maleficent said firmly. “Some of it, perhaps. Yet, here you are, holding our children in your hands. I see no animal before me.”

He peered up at her again, his shining eyes framed with dirt. However wild his exterior was, his eyes were not so. They were soft and kind. They were Diaval. Inhuman, yet more human than most men she had ever met.

Slowly, she came to her knees and held his hand. She brushed his hair out of his face. He fought to keep his gaze on her, anxious. Visions of walking through dark forests sprung to her mind, a staff in her hand and agony at her back and in her heart. She could barely walk without the familiar weight of her glorious wings behind her.

“When Stefan took my wings, I felt to be incomplete,” she admitted in a murmur. “Faeries have wings. I did not. I felt to be half of a whole. He stole something precious for his own gain. He took a part of who I was away. But you see that I am whole. I will never forget or forgive what he did, but with or without my wings, I am Maleficent. That was something he could not take from me. And no matter how hard he tries, Mori’ka cannot take Diaval from you. You are too strong and far too stubborn.” Leaning in, she held his cheeks and softly pressed her lips to his forehead. “Still so beautiful. I miss you.”

The soft edge of her wing brushed against his face, feathers caressing his smudged and cold skin. It seemed to comfort him a great deal, so she brought his hand up into the deep, velvet-soft feathers, allowing him to sweetly caress and admire them and sate his raven need to do so. As he did, he watched her with a love that was unbroken and fierce. 

True love. That which could cut through the darkness like a scythe, and always would.


	16. Even Time Dreams

_Don’t go back_.

A black bear stood at the edge of a churning river, snapping at the fat fish coming to spawn. He didn’t usually like fish a great deal. They smelt and tasted funny. When he wore this shape, it was all he could think about eating. It was nearly all he could think about at all.

_Don’t go back._

The hook of his beak sank beyond scales and into flesh and bone. Warm blood gushed down his gullet. He tossed the wounded fish into the air and caught it, swallowing it whole. It was good, but not satisfying; he was hungry. Such an enormous bear would need to devour near enough the entire river before feeling something close to satiation. 

Well, it wasn’t like there was anything here stopping him. No humans with their swords and their perpetual belief that all lands and all things were theirs. A bear could be free in the magical, mysterious and often dark forests of the Moors. Free to make dens and eat everything that they wanted to eat. His belly was still rumbling. He needed more fish. More and more.

_Look._

He looked up. There was the spire of a castle touching the sky on the horizon. The bear’s heart ached. It yearned for things it didn’t understand. That was why he could not go near the castle. The pain would only get worse.

But he wanted … he _needed_ …

 _Look_.

The bear turned, and he looked into the deep, dark woods behind him. Between the monstrous brambles and nightmarish, gnarled trees, there was a pale light floating beyond like living moonlight, casting unsettling shadows about the grass and flowers. What was it? A human? A fairy? More importantly, was it food?

Drawn to the light, the bear dropped the fish caught in its paw and headed for the trees, lifting its beak and sniffing curiously at the twilight air. Cautious, he watched eagerly as the _potential food_ floated into his sights and lingered there within the shadows.

It was … there was a word for it. A human word. He couldn’t remember.

It wasn’t food.

The silent ball of light was about as big as his own foot. Not a threat. At least, not the sort of threat a bear could comprehend. He could definitely squash it into the dirt if he wanted. After all, he was a bear with a very serious task at hand and this swirling orb was interrupting his business quite rudely. 

Oddly, his curiosity did not wane. It seemed to reach somewhere … beyond him. 

_Don’t go back._

Forwards. His feet carried him forwards towards the darkness. Towards the light. He entered the forest and the _thing_ swung away a small distance again, and there it waited. The bear caught up to it and tried to bat the orb with his paw, but it drifted off with a mischievous twirl and landed further into the woods. It lit the sheer darkness with its flickering glow, illuminating twisted faces on the trees and wicked eyes beaming up in their branches.

The Forest of Dreams was a dangerous place.

There were ravens cawing at him, unseen.

_Go back. Go back. Go BACK._

How could he? The light clearly wanted him to follow it. The bear, despite his great size and his ferocious paws, felt scared and alone, but there were voices … they told him to go onwards. It was the only real way to sate his hunger, they told him. If he followed the light, they would reward him with what he needed. They said it to him in the Old Language, so it had to be the truth. The tongue of the wilds could not tell lies.

Besides, he was a big, scary bear, and nothing could hurt him.

The trees muttered among each other as he passed them, their speech resonating in the groans of their dark trunks and the tainted earth. Something about … _good heavens, finally, at long bloody last …_ The claws of their branches, which might have ensnared any foolish trespasser in the woods, slowly pulled apart to let him aside. They said his name, whispering it in the crisp, deadened leaves clinging on for dear life.

_Diaval._

Strange name for a bear.

Oh, right. 

The Old Language could not tell lies, but it always spoke in poetry. Diaval was a bird, not a bear, and named for the impish devils of worlds beyond the magical mists of the Feth Fiadha. He was no true evil, but was thought to be associated with mischief and wickedness. That was what his name meant. He remembered that. And he remembered through perseverance that the _thing_ he was following … the lantern-like glow that drifted like a ghost between the old, grumpy trees, was in fact a will-o’-the-wisp.

He probably shouldn’t have been following it.

_Don’t go back._

That’s right. He wasn’t a bear. He was something cursed. Something that had to stay away. No wonder the darkest, strangest part of the Moors welcomed him in, now. It did not make him feel uncomfortable. It made him feel welcome. There was a place where things like him came to feel like they belonged. They were there in the trees or the shadows creeping in. Goblins and ghouls. Black shucks. Yet more wisps trying to take him off course, shining their light on a world he had never dared venture to.

He wasn’t a bear. His hunger wasn’t real. As soon as he transformed again, it would go away. Still, it _would_ be nice if the wisp gave him something delicious for travelling all that way through a spooky forest. After all, what was the point of doing anything if nothing good was going to happen at the end? What was the point? What was the _point?_

 _Don’t go back_.

Don’t go back. Don’t move forwards. He may as well have just stopped and laid there beneath the trees. Few dared venture so far into this part of the woods, and nobody would mess with a bear. He would sleep for days, and when he finally emerged, everything would be over. It would be like waking up from a nightmare. He could walk free and it would be like nothing had happened at all. He’d just go about his bear - _raven -_ business and return to his family, unburdened. 

But the wisp only seemed interested in leading him further and further away from waking up.

It wafted about his head insistently, then floated with ghostly grace through dark thickets to a clearing beyond. The bear acknowledged that he knew this place. He’d gotten stuck in those thickets before. Just beyond, Maleficent hid pieces of jewellery about her clothes and challenged him to find every last one. He remembered that, and as he did, he remembered many other things with sudden clarity. The human part of him, which had been bleating this and that the entire time, was taking over.

But the bear _liked_ being a bear. No - Diaval liked being a bear! It was with significant disappointment that he unwillingly changed shape. The man took over, hands burying into the moist mud beneath him as everything the bear hadn’t had the capacity to really think about all came hurtling back. 

Still … the Forest of Dreams lived up to its name. The magical haze could make one feel as though they were traversing the realm of sleep, and nothing that happened had any real consequence. That was why it was dangerous. Not the dark monsters that dwelt within. 

Forwards. Well, he’d come this far.

The thicket scratched at his bare, dirtied skin as he fought his way through it. Stumbling out through the other side, he looked up to find that familiar moonlit clearing. It was a small area. Very old. In the very middle, the Dark Pond sat perfectly still and mysterious, unaffected by the pale, swirling wisp now floating plainly above its centre.

Diaval approached. Slowly. His limbs were aching. He still felt as though he weighed as much as a bear. With something of a menacing stare did he regard the wisp, which was as silent as ever, and then he looked at the Dark Pond which it hovered over so invitingly.

Shadowed. Perhaps corrupted. Perhaps not. Perfectly ring-shaped. Diaval did not tend to trust ring-shaped things out in the wilds, these days. There were even mushrooms sprouting around it, affirming something that he had never considered about the place. It was another one of _them._ Something he had been beckoned to for a reason, no doubt, and one that he was not going to like.

He did not touch it. Instead, he stared angrily at it for a little while longer, sitting down at its edge and pulling his knees up to his chest.

Beside him, a dark, gnarled tree said nothing. Diaval glared at it, too. If he looked hard enough, he could make out something of a face in the cracks of its bark. Or was it just a trick of the light?

“What’re you lookin’ at?” He snapped at it, then looked away.

Above the pond, the wisp continued to float, ever silent. 

“Wisps trick people, y’know,” he continued, unsure whether he was talking to the tree or to himself. What did it matter? It wasn’t like there was anybody there listening in that haunted little grove. “That’s right. They’re ‘sposed to lead the way to treasure, but really they’re just tryin’ to kill you. My parents told me that. If they knew I’d followed one, they’d come back to life just to peck me on the ankles. Turn away, they’d say! Turn away and never go back.”

Nothing answered him. Things just remained as they were, unaffected by his prattling. The older Diaval got, the more he enjoyed his peace and quiet, but this was different. This was a lonely feeling. It was as though the land he’d tried to save chose not to hear him, for it hadn’t forgiven him for failing. He’d burnt its forests. Almost killed some of its people. Its queen. Why would it ever listen to him now?

He’d done the very thing he had warned people against in the past. He let his anger get the better of him, and then …

How he’d underestimated how easy it was to do it. The right thing … the right thing was rarely ever the easiest. He knew that, but Mori’ka had gotten under his skin and that was it. The shame was dreadful. Mortifying, even, much as the same as what he’d felt after coming home from Wickpon those years ago. A cold, creeping hollowness, fresh from somebody using him for something he had not wanted. He’d given in. Again. Forced to choose between two evils and losing his own precious autonomy.

“Turn away, they’d say,” Diaval croaked, gazing up at the wisp waiting for him. “Just this once.”

A raven had the sense to know when to turn and fly away. He used to be a very good raven. One of the best. Now, there were no good ravens left.

Reaching out a hand, he crossed into the ring and touched a fingertip to the cold water, then drew it away again. He knew that something happened, even if it wasn’t immediately obvious, for there was a slight and immediate shift in temperature to the warmer side of things. Still, he did not move or even really try to acknowledge anything new from a numb and complete inability to be surprised. It all felt just as much a dream as it did moments ago.

He did feel fear, however, when he dropped his hand away from his eyes and saw something there across the pond. A dark, feathery mass that was difficult to make sense of. The wisp was gone and had taken its light with it, so it was difficult to see anything much at all given that it was only the light of the Moon that lit the earth, now, watching just as silently as everything else.

The creature across the pond unfolded itself. It was frantically scrubbing a bleeding arm in the water, chittering in displeasure. Diaval realised quite suddenly that he recognised it. It was something akin to what he’d seen in a vision long ago, under different circumstances. A creature that was both bird and man, with arms and legs and a tail and the head of a raven. It was a crooked looking thing, all bony limbs and long feathers. 

Humans would have called it a monster. A demon raven. They would never see the beauty in its darkness. Diaval knew that for a fact, because he knew who the creature was. Over two months ago, he’d been in the presence of its twisted soul.

He felt his blood drain away from his face. The quiet, magical haze of the woods, that which made it feel as though it existed only in dreams, seemed to strengthen. The world span, and Diaval thought for a moment he might pass out when the large, dark eyes of the raven púca landed upon him. Why had he followed the wisp?! Why would the Moors lead him into further danger after everything? Couldn’t it see that he was _done_?

The tree at his side, which he’d not long berated, proved an ally in that moment. Diaval scrambled behind it, but it was too late; he’d already been seen and Mori’ka would undoubtedly do something terrible, like transform him again and make him wreak havoc, or go through with his promise of trapping him with Wynne -

“I do beg your pardon!” Mori’ka called in a sing-song croak. “Is this your grove, strange naked man? There is no need to be afraid. I …” The shapeshifter trailed off, humming with thought. “You are not a _ghost,_ are you? Oh, I really thought I’d rounded you all up! All the more, Tech Duinn should have …”

Diaval heard the shift of Mori’ka’s clawed feet in the grass. Heart leaping into his throat, he backed away from the tree, his lungs seizing up and refusing to draw breath. He had just enough wherewithal about him to be confused by what he was seeing and hearing. Mori’ka wasn’t supposed to have a true body of his own! He borrowed the likes of ravens or dead people, these days. All the more, hadn’t he come to prefer the shape of a man?

He could see no spite in the demon’s eyes. He read raven very well, of course. In fact, the creature actually looked _worried_ , his great, avian head tilting this way and that. Diaval suddenly felt to be looking at his own reflection. Indeed, there they both stood in the mirror surface of the Dark Pond as reflections, stood at opposite ends of the ring and gazing at each other through that hazy, dreary space.

Through time itself.

At Mori’ka’s feet, there was an elaborate metal torch about half as tall as he was. It was extravagant in appearance, something like the staff of a witch or warlock. The Cumbrian Torch. Diaval just knew it. He could feel it in his very bones. And now he had to find a way to disregard his fears and retrieve it.

“Do not worry,” Mori’ka insisted, using his wing to hide the wound on his arm. “I will not hurt you! I am meant to help protect this land, not hurt the humans that live here. I have just … Well, the undead invasion is defeated, now, so you have nothing to worry about!”

Diaval stared. His hands were shaking, so he tried to hide them behind his back. Mori’ka had no idea who he was, because in this time, they had not yet met. They had not yet …

Cold realisation dawned.

If this wasn’t a mere dream … if it was not simply a vision designed to show him the secrets of the past, it meant that he was really _there._ It couldn’t be possible, could it? If the fairy rings had the power to actually bend time itself, why had they never done it before? Why had it brought him here to this exact moment? It would mean that Mori’ka had known who he was the whole time. He recognised him as the man who appeared to him those millennia ago.

The one to take the Cumbrian Torch.

Instead of killing Diaval outright, Mori’ka had sought to use him, instead. He would try to break his spirit and turn him into the very same monster he was. Perhaps, to him, it was a more fitting punishment than death. Or perhaps death would have confused the flow of time, for he never would have entered the fairy ring to take the torch in the first place. That was why he was still alive. The Moors needed Mori’ka to unwittingly send the torch into the future where it would be needed again, and Diaval was apparently destined to act as its hands and feet. Just as Mori’ka had been so long ago.

He didn’t want to believe it. He could have been wrong, and he hoped dearly that he was. Taking the torch meant that his life was bound to such a cause and that it always _had_ been, like his life was written in the pages of a book and he’d had no choice but to wander the predestined paths. That couldn’t be right. Maybe there had always been the potential for a thousand other faces to take his place there in that moment, but he was the one the Moors wanted to send. How was he to know? Whatever the case, he was a piece in a grand game of chess and he longed for the moment he would be finally cast from the board.

Startled when Mori’ka made another movement towards him, Diaval flinched but did not move. There was no choice in the matter, as always. If he wanted to help his kingdom, he needed to be the one the spirit passed the torch onto so that it could once again seal the souls of the dead back into their realm.

_Don’t go back._

Focus. _Focus._

Though it killed him to do it, he took a wary step towards the curious spirit, too. Every part of his mind screamed at him to _run_ , but he couldn’t do that to the Moors or the human kingdoms. They needed the torch whether he liked it or not.

“I - I’m not a human,” he just about managed in a strained rasp, averting his gaze. Mori’ka would figure out he was a raven at one point or another, if he hadn’t already. “I was turned into this by a sorceress. I’m a, er ... raven fairy now.”

The feathers above Mori’ka’s eyes stretched upwards, giving the appearance of raised eyebrows. His long, bony fingers fiddled nervously at his chest, though his curiosity was alight in the dark amber and the black of his wise eyes and the tilt of his beak.

“I have never seen such a marvel. You must have crossed paths with a very powerful sorceress. A raven fairy! It is an enormous shame you have lost your wings, you poor thing! Well, I’d give you my own, but I only have the two …”

“No. It’s alright, I … I’m gettin’ used to it,” Diaval said weakly. “That wound on your arm looks dangerous.”

“Oh, this?” Mori’ka said a little too loudly, trying to hide the bleeding gash again. “It’s nothing! It will heal in a matter of hours. It’s … oh.” The feathers on the spirit’s head raised in surprise when Diaval very slowly approached to take his arm. His beak opening with wonder, he allowed himself to be pulled down to the edge of the pond again.

This was wrong, Diaval thought. Very wrong indeed. Somebody like Mori’ka didn’t deserve his help, no matter how friendly and how nervous he appeared. The future of the spirit was one clouded by revenge, murder, hatred … in fact, it felt as though all of those things could be prevented, if only Diaval had the stomach and the capability to actually lay his hands on another sentient being with the intention of killing it. 

If there was no Mori’ka, there would be no forest fae. Perhaps no Dark Fae entirely. There would be no Diaval, because there would be no _Maleficent._

He couldn’t think about the possible outcomes of such a thing. He couldn’t think about the deaths that would arise as a result of Mori’ka becoming fully-fledged evil, either.

It did not feel good taking advantage of Mori’ka’s obvious hurt for his own ends. It felt rotten, despite knowing full well the future in store. How was it that people enjoyed this? How was it they gained strength from the misery of innocent others? Diaval only found joy in the misery of others when they deserved it, and … Mori’ka did not. Not yet, at least.

Concealing his troubles, he ran the dark water over the wound and preened at the matted feathers until much of the dried blood was gone.

“Was it a human?” He asked, stifling the shiver that raced down his spine. His hands were still shaking. The feathers were cold and sticky beneath his fingers, and to know just who they belonged to made him feel sick. Still, he persisted.

“Yes,” Mori’ka croaked sadly. “I have only just returned from Tairseach to seal the gateway to Tech Duinn. I carried the Phoenix’s precious fire there myself! The humans still think that I have something to do with the realm of the dead. No sooner did I arrive to tell them of their safety, they chased me away from the castle and did this to me.” The spirit actually sniffled a bit at that, watching as his wound was diligently cleansed. “You are so kind, fairy. You and the Phoenix. Like her, your eyes tell of wounds below the surface.”

Diaval swallowed thickly. Unable to meet the spirit’s eyes, he kept his own firmly on his work, fighting to stay the trembling.

“The gods don’t treat her kindly, do they?” He murmured, trying to earn the favour of the shapeshifter. “I think it’s cruel.”

“Indeed! If only they had any idea what she truly is. Perhaps they would not exclude her from their games in the realm of Tir na Nog!” Mori’ka spoke with passion, the harshness of his ragged voice cutting through the sleepy grove. “Have they not seen the burning beauty of her gaze? The sleekness of her feathers? Why do they not bow in awe before her power? The mind boggles! I am _honoured_ to have even received a moment of her time to collect flame in that wretched old torch, there. The very thing the gods of Tech Duinn created to try and control her! I … I shall never regret disowning them for that. The Phoenix deserves to live free. Oh.” He cleared his throat, and his feathers flattened. “Pardon my prattling …”

“No,” Diaval said quickly, contorting his face to try and look as clueless as possible. “I’ve heard of her. I think she’s … she’s amazin’. They really tried to control her?”

“Of course they did. They are gods. They are the very essence of the earth and the great, dark beyond … There was nothing around more powerful than them until the Phoenix landed on that island off the coast. So, the gods of death and war forged a torch of iron to keep her flame imprisoned, turning an element formed within her own heart against her and fairykind. It seems to be their nature to do these things ever since they were snubbed by the gods of Tir na Nog …”

“It’s no excuse. Whatever happened to ‘em, it’s not … it’s not right.” 

Diaval released Mori’ka’s arm when he was done with it. The bleeding had since stopped, and the feathers were clean. Diaval’s hands, however, were bloodied from his efforts. Reaching into the Dark Pond, he tried to wash them clean of all dirt, but it was cold and the trembling only worsened. 

The spirit was quiet a moment, watching him. Then, he reached down and took Diaval’s hands into his claws to help him. Diaval gritted his teeth and turned himself away as much as he feasibly could, fighting to stop himself wrenching his hands from Mori’ka’s hold and striking him with the torch in revenge for everything that the spirit-turned-demon would do.

“Brother, I must ask … Have the humans hurt you, too?”

The question was asked with such concern and kindness that Diaval did not know what to do. Did he snarl and pull away? Or did he relent and allow this kindness to be bestowed upon him, despite knowing how corrupted the spirit would become? Did he allow the time for another being - another _raven_ \- to understand him, and to understand it in turn?

His fingers were frozen into claws, far more vicious than those that gently held them. 

Curse the Moors for this. Curse it all.

“Yes. Just a few. Most of ‘em, they’re … they’re alright.”

“Hm. I am very sorry to hear it. Even the ones that live here in the Moors cannot seem to get along with fairies very well. It is truly maddening trying to keep on top of all the arguing and fighting. And now they are hurting ravens, too? I have half a mind to tell the Phoenix so that she might come and … Oh. Never mind.” Actually appearing sheepish, Mori’ka released Diaval’s hands and prodded his claws together, nervous. “I … could not bear to present this meagre form of mine before a creature so magnificent again. It is a wonder she let me approach her nest at all. Me! Oh! I beg your pardon, here I go again, blathering on and on … Well, do not allow the humans near you again, raven-fairy. Hmm. I think you may be onto something with this shape of yours, though … perhaps I should try something similar on.”

Thankfully, Mori’ka did not transform. Instead, he rose up onto his feathered legs and thoughtfully wiped his beak on the gnarled tree nearby a moment, stroking at the beard-like mass of feathers on his neck. Then, he sighed, a raspy song of despair rattling deep in his throat.

“I doubt they shall think any better of me, but it is worth a try, I suppose. Perhaps even the Phoenix might …” He harrumphed loudly at that and knelt down by Diaval’s side again, taking the Cumbrian Torch from the grass to hold it thoughtfully aloft. “The conflict will all be over. One day. I am sure of it. I will continue to try and help the humans! But … perhaps I should hide this so that none of them get any _ideas._ They are just full of terrible ones. It is a wonder they have survived this long at all.”

“They should never have it,” Diaval quickly agreed, looking reluctantly at the torch. The scent of iron made him even more uncomfortable than he already was. It was a terrible object, he decided. A torture device intended for a great fairy spirit, stolen away from Tech Duinn before it could be used by the gods that conceived it. It could have been no easy task to retrieve it. “The Phoenix must be grateful for your help.”

“Oh.” If ravens could blush, then Mori’ka certainly would have done so. As it were, some of the feathers on his head rose to stand on end out of sheer interest, and his eyes were as round and wide as two full moons. “No, no. I am but a speck of dust compared to her! Quite literally! I am just another raven going about his day. But … _no._ She is the greatest of fairies. She is the very apex of the magical civilisation! Brother, just as the fairies we know are the living embodiments of nature’s aspects, so too is she. Only, imagine that the magic that turns mushrooms into little living men set its sights on something far bigger and far more grand.” 

The spirit raised his head, then, his gaze turning towards the glittering blanket of night. Diaval copied him, peering up into the beautiful blackness of the beyond and the cosmic bodies that lit the invisible pathways into the unknown. The Forest of Dreams had no power over the world waiting up there in the heavens, and for the first time in a long time, Diaval felt suddenly as though he was really, truly awake. What a strange thing it was to experience at the side of an enemy, a hateful creature who was the very reason behind his despair. There, a lone night before rage and time twisted a spirit into a shadow of his former self, Mori’ka was a raven that understood. A brother.

Clarity was agonising. Diaval looked down into the Dark Pond, instead, but found two men side by side, one admiring the heavens and the other keeping his feet firmly on the ground.

“She told me that she remembers an infinite night where she was the only light in the dark for aeons. Her very purpose was to build and create and to eventually die, and her essence would spread through the beyond to create another like her. Only, something changed. She is now a Phoenix, but she was once a star in the sky. She is … still a star in many ways. The very brightest and most beautiful. Something of the untouchable and the unknown in our world, and gracious enough to lend us her birthing flame to make it more peaceful! I would die if it meant to protect her.”

Those words hung heavily. Diaval wondered just how true such a sentiment still was.

Gathering his wits, he turned and looked the raven spirit in the eye once Mori’ka’s attention returned to him. It made his skin crawl, despite that there was nothing but wonder and a fatherly affection there to be seen in the gaze of one doomed to lose it all. 

“I’ll help you,” he offered, just barely managing a smile. “The gods don’t bother with the likes of me, and the humans are too scared of this part of the Moors to venture inside. I’ll hide the torch for you. The less people that know where it is, the better.”

Mori’ka’s beak fell open. Slowly, he closed it again and resumed thoughtfully stroking at his hackle of feathers.

“Very wise, young friend, and I can see that your intentions are good.” He stared at the torch a moment more, and then slowly offered it forwards - though not before taking off his dark shawl and wrapping the pole of the torch within. “Be very careful the iron does not burn you. And take care to hide it well. If this falls into the wrong hands, the entire world will be in grave peril again! I trust that you will protect it as well as you would guard a hoard of fine treasures.”

“The finest,” Diaval promised, reaching forth. He took the torch and held it a little way in front of him. It was heavy, even as Mori’ka seemed temporarily unable to actually let go of it. 

Diaval’s heart skipped a beat. Had Mori’ka realised? Was everything about to go terribly wrong? But no - the spirit relinquished it fully at long last, sighing with relief as the burden of the artefact was passed on to another. 

“Thank you. _Thank you._ The unforgiving nature of our neighbours will not kill our kindness yet. What name did you earn for yourself as a little chick, brother?”

Standing, Diaval took a step back and gazed up at the unlit torch. The crown of it was shaped like skeletal fingers reaching for something it could never truly touch. The pole was twisted and etched with ancient runes, no doubt laden with a dark magic powerful enough to keep even something like phoenix fire contained. Such a foul energy radiated from it in waves, seeping past his skin until it felt as though he was standing in Tech Duinn itself.

Mori’ka stared expectantly at him. Diaval did not want to answer his question, but he suspected the spirit would not leave until he did.

“Maybe it’s better nobody knows,” he said after a moment’s thought. 

“Oh. I suppose … It does seem a shame. I should like to bump into you again. We are both ravens of extraordinary capability, after all! Might you -“

The spirit’s voice was drowned out by an unnatural sound in the distance that echoed through the woods and the very sky. It was something between a dragon’s roar and birdsong, shrill and unearthly and … beautiful to the ears of a bird. It lasted for several long seconds before fading away, but the lasting impact of it was apparent: Mori’ka huddled into himself, his eyes near enough popping out of his skull. Diaval felt the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end in wake of it.

“Oh, my. Oh, _no._ Brother, forgive me, I really must get going! I never thought that she would come _here.”_ With a fretful squawk, Mori’ka paced hurriedly back and forth. “I simply cannot face her again! My, I hear the north is very nice this time of year, and it’s probably about time I patrolled the forests there. The humans have such a tendency to lose themselves among them! Oh -“ With another, saddened caw, he ran his claws back across his head to smooth down his feathers. “Stop blathering! Stop it! Erm, it was good to meet you, mystery raven-fairy. I pray to the gods that we cross paths again!”

With a flourish of shadows, feathers, and swirling leaves, Mori’ka transformed into a true raven and frantically beat his wings to immediately take off up over the dark crown of the forest. He faded into the night as swiftly as he had appeared in the first place, and Diaval was left alone to contemplate all that had transpired.

He exhaled shakily, taking a moment to come to terms with it. In his right hand, the pole of the torch felt cool beneath the material, never quite warming from his own body heat. It felt wrong to wield something that never should have existed in the first place, but it seemed even weapons designed for evil could become tools of good intention, and perhaps one day it would only ever be known for the good it did in its role of separating mortals from the vengeful dead.

The song of the Phoenix pierced the night sky yet again. Diaval found himself strangely affected by it, now, the shrill but musical sound lulling him into a strange moment of fogginess. It sounded again - wonderful and unearthly, almost ghoulish - and strangely, the world began to swim and fade into black.

And then he couldn’t breathe. 

He choked, struggling, and then everything was really, _really_ wet. Where one moment he had been stood with the Cumbrian Torch in hand, the next he was surrounded by a freezing cold pool of water and slimy weeds that grabbed at his limbs like ghostly hands. Clarity and desperation returned, kicked out and broke through the surface of the water, gasping for air. Spluttering, he grabbed onto the edge of the Dark Pond and found the torch was right there on the grass in front of him, its odd, dark aura just as pungent as before.

The Phoenix’s song did not sound again. She was gone. Mori’ka as he’d met him was gone, too, but the torch was still there.

It was all rather a lot. He needed Maleficent. He couldn’t really think about anything else.

Making the most of his unwitting plunge into the unnervingly still waters, Diaval cleaned himself up as best he could until he was shivering with cold. His mind turned as numb as his flesh. When he was done, he blindly shapeshifted and didn’t even really acknowledge what the shape was, only that it was something with wings that could carry the large torch, too. A griffin? An unusually large raven? It didn’t matter.

 _Go back,_ he thought, something alighting in his heart. _Go home. You’re better than he is._

Soon enough he was crashing onto the ledge outside of their nest and transforming rapidly back into his man-shape before he’d even found his feet. The cave was so warm, so much warmer than the wild forests. The nest was looked so comfortable and oh, how he missed it, but he missed its other occupant more than anything else. She was there, too, watching him from within with sleepy eyes.

He was overwhelmed with intense love.

“Diaval?” She questioned, a slight rasp to her voice. Her wings unfurled from around herself. She focused and stared at him, appearing alarmed. “What happened? What _is_ that?”

Diaval remembered he was holding the torch. He thoughtlessly tossed it aside where it could lay temporarily forgotten, blending in with the shadows of the cave.

“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow,” he promised throatily, drawing forwards. “I know you can stop me if somethin’ happens. You’re the Phoenix. No … you’re Maleficent. You can do anythin’. I’ll sleep outside if I have to, but I’m not leavin’ your side again. I won’t let anyone make me do that. Especially not him. I’m Diaval. I’m _yours._ ”

The faerie smiled. She was so luminous in the darkness that it was almost blinding. She reached for him, and he practically threw himself into the nest at her beckon so that they could be joined again in an immediate and enthusiastic kiss.

It was no mere dream. It was _home_.


	17. The Day Before the End

The next morning, Diaval and Maleficent enjoyed the burgeoning dawn together on the rocky ledge outside of the cave. They had breakfast and sat huddled underneath a blanket, watching the dawn break in spires of orange and gold on the horizon, and they enjoyed that brief moment in time to enjoy the peace of their magnificent surroundings and each other’s company.

Diaval regaled Maleficent with the story of how he came to be in possession of the Cumbrian Torch, too. It all still felt to be a dream, and Diaval still was not entirely sure whether what happened was actually reality or not despite that the torch was lying behind them near their nest. Whatever the case, he felt much better that morning now that his mind had more or less shed some of the shame and the instincts of the animal forms he’d adopted while roaming the forests. 

Maleficent barely showed any emotion at all in response to his story despite how impressively he told it. She did watch him closely, however, as though trying to read below the surface, eyes flicking deftly between his. 

“And you’re  _ alright  _ with the fact you met Mori’ka again?” She asked once he’d finished, sliding a hand onto his knee.

“No! But I realised that this is my chance to show everyone that I’m not gonna turn out like he did! It feels like history is tryin’ to repeat itself, as it often does, but I don’t have to let it. What’s more, I was given a second chance at life thanks to you not givin’ up on me, Maleficent. I’m not gonna squander it by lettin’ him win.”

Maleficent smiled a little, raising her head approvingly.

“There is that remarkable stubbornness of yours. However … remember there is no shame in the things you are feeling. I think it is fine to miss a part of yourself that was lost to what you have endured. I promise you that one day you will feel it making its return.” She took his hand, then, holding it within hers. “Love and time does wonders, Diaval.”

“You’d know it better than many, love. It took years to see you genuinely happy after I met you, y’know. I’ll never tire of seein’ it, now.”

The faerie’s smile broadened and rivalled the beauty of the waking dawn. 

“Sentimental old bird,” she murmured, rolling her eyes for show, but there was true fondness in her words. “I haven’t missed you at all, actually.”

“Really? I haven’t missed you, either. Funny, that.”

They moved in for a sweet, lingering kiss, their hands sliding to the slight curve of Maleficent’s belly. She moved to lean back against him, resting her head upon his shoulder to enjoy the wonder of the world lying before them. Diaval’s heart fluttered weakly as he held her. In her presence, it was like falling in love over and over again. Truly timeless, and with so much more left to explore. 

“Trust you to end up in a situation like that,” Maleficent commented dryly. “Of course you were thrown back in time. Why not? You find yourself in every sticky situation there is going. Why not fling yourself into the future all willy-nilly next time?”

“I have  _ never _ heard you say the words  _ willy-nilly _ .”

“And of  _ course _ you were the one to find the torch.”

“What can I say? Fate’s had it out for me thousands of years before I was even born, apparently. Or not. I have no idea.”

“My head hurts just thinking about it,” Maleficent sighed. “He’s known who you are all this time. I suppose he was clever enough to know that stopping you could have ended in disaster in ways we can’t even imagine. You should be even more careful now that your part in his past has come to fruition.”

“I think I’m safe the whole time I’m carryin’ a part of him around,” Diaval said thoughtfully, unsure whether to be relieved or not. “But enough of ol’ rot-beak. How is it bein’ the leader of the forest fae? How is that new magic going?”

“Well …” Maleficent murmured, idly running a finger over the raven-skull ring on Diaval’s finger. “Being their leader is easier than I thought, for now. Their minds are preoccupied with this Breoslaigh business. It’s when their complaints become more varied that I fear my patience will begin to dwindle. I am not sure if I can replace Connall or Merin, or my own father.”

“No one is askin’ you to,” said Diaval, his voice softening. “You’re not replacin’ anyone, just as you’re not replacin’ your mother as the Phoenix. You’re gonna be your own sort of leader. I’ll be right there behind you, like always. Well … when I’m allowed to know what’s goin’ on, that is.”

Maleficent looked up at him, and she gently touched his cheek with warm, elegant fingers.

“It’ll be soon,” she promised sternly, in a no nonsense sort of way. “I feel I am bridging the gap between my power and that of the Otherworld, albeit slowly. I can understand things about the Moors that I never understood before. I learnt how the trees talk to each other. I learnt that souls are sent from the Otherworld to occupy new life, and that they are always fated to return.”

That gave Diaval pause. He was glad to learn of his mate’s successful endeavours to retune herself with a magic the original Phoenix was cut off from, but curiosity filled him in wake of her explanation of the origins of the soul.

“D’you think … Maleficent, if you connect yourself with the Otherworld in the way that everythin’ else is, d’you think it might break the Phoenix cycle? What if your soul goes to Tir na Nog and -“

“I have happy news in that regard.” The faerie smiled at him, then, apparently amused by his genuine shock. “I was just as surprised to hear some good news, too. In learning more about the Moors and the Otherworld, I have learnt something more about myself. I entered a fairy ring and I was able to commune with a few that came before me. Phoenixes, that is.”

“Wait, what?  _ What?  _ How? I thought it was some kinda reincarnation thing!”

“Only in part. I, too, was led to believe that my own soul would never come to rest in the Otherworld, only to be passed down through time again and again. However, just as a star creates more of its kind upon death, there is always something of itself left behind. A soul without power, but a soul nonetheless. They walk Tir na Nog freely as the gods have no reason to fear them. That is what those I spoke to told me.” Making the most of Diaval’s stunned silence, she continued, “Strong magic emerges in the eldest of the Phoenix’s daughters. When the Phoenix dies, that magic is made complete and the daughter emerges as the successor. And so the cycle continues. That is why I am considered her last descendant, even though all Dark Fae originate from her.”

Diaval found himself becoming rather emotional upon hearing Maleficent’s recount of the true nature of her soul and all those that came before. He almost choked on his own words, surprised and then truly elated by the implications of it.

“So - not that I want to  _ talk _ about it, but -“

“I too will go to the Otherworld when my time comes, yes. We shall not be forced to spend an eternity apart.”

“Oh,” Diaval croaked.

“Oh, dear. Do pull yourself together. That is good news, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Maleficent. Yes. It’s …”

Thinking that words wouldn’t necessarily do justice to the happiness he felt, he simply held onto her. Tightly. Maleficent clearly felt emotional about it all, too, for she glanced away and stared towards the dawning sun for a few moments, but there was still a smile on her lips and a wonderful sort of glitter to her eyes. 

“It was quite a relief,” she admitted. “Now I know I am Maleficent and my path is my own.”

“I’ve always said that. Trust you to listen to ghosts instead of me. What were they like? Did you meet the original one?”

Maleficent swatted him, but without vigour. 

“So say you, stone-ears. And no, I did not meet the original. They said they have not seen her for some years. They were … enthusiastic, I would say. All eager to know of my accomplishments and my children and my … prime consort, as they put it.”

“ _ Prime  _ consort? What, there’s supposed to be more than one? Is that a Phoenix thing?”

The faerie turned to him again, her smile turning wry, and then she pouted in that way of hers. Her hand dropped down to his inner thigh slid slowly upwards in a suggestive, playful manner.

“I have everything I need here. But, yes, some Phoenixes took more than one mate in the spirit of our oldest ancestor. They are considered in fae culture to be the most, um … bountiful, shall we say.”

Diaval quickly drew her hand away from his nethers, wearing a smirk of his own by then. He poked Maleficent in the side, earning himself another half-hearted slap to his arm.

“Right! We found that out, didn’t we? How does it feel bein’ bountiful, Maleficent? We’re gonna have a hundred little fae children runnin’ around the Moors at this rate. A thousand. I don’t think even I can manage a thousand babies, but I’ll do my best.”

Maleficent rolled her eyes and lightly scoffed, though she looked at him with nothing but affection, as clear as day. 

“Of course you would want a thousand children. And then you would take a thousand more under your wing.”

“Can you imagine it? The stories about me would be endless. All good ones, too. The amazin’ raven that sired a thousand children and was in eternal love with a Phoenix that was so much more to him than bountiful. You’ll have all the best stories, though. Think of all the ones you’ll have to tell the little ones when this is all over.”

She shifted at his side, raising her head to behold him properly. She did not seem entirely amused, and he wondered if he’d accidentally said something wrong. However, she moved in to kiss him again, which he eagerly reciprocated, holding her close there within the soft morning light.

“You’ll be there to tell them with me,” she said firmly, all but glaring at him when she pulled back. “Souls are magnificently complicated, but …”

“We’ll find a way, Maleficent. We always do.”

He spoke it as a promise, but this time, he remained uncertain. The only ways that could be found were ones that existed. He had no idea how any of it worked, but he hoped dearly that there was still time for them to figure out how to remove the demon from his soul before it did something he could never come back from. If he did not hope, then there was no chance at all. No chance of perfect mornings like this with Maleficent, who he loved so fiercely that it hurt.

Maleficent already knew of his concerns, so he did not air them, preferring not to linger on them much more. Instead, he continued:

“Did you meet your mother when you were talkin’ to the others?”

The faerie frowned at that, her gaze drifting away.

“No, I … I called her name. Nithe. She did not come. It seems she is doomed to remain a mystery.”

Regretting having asked, Diaval quickly leaned down and pressed a comforting little kiss to Maleficent’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. All souls must find their way through Tech Duinn, but only those deserving of the realm paradise are able to sail to Tir na Nog. Perhaps she was one of those left behind. The forest fae say that she resented her part in the Phoenix cycle by the end and sought a way to end it. She thought it could somehow end the wars between fae and men. So, she took me into the Moors and left me to the mercy of the wilds as a baby, and a spell meant the others would not find me until its magic came to dwindle.”

She said it all with a remarkable strength, though her tone was so flat that Diaval knew the subject hurt her a great deal. He’d often dwelt on why the Dark Fae had never come to Maleficent to take her back to the ancestral island, and the answer was just as awful as he’d suspected. He could hardly fathom the thought of taking a child into a dangerous forest and just  _ leaving  _ them there! 

And apparently Maleficent couldn’t, either. Her hands again rested protectively on the gentle swell of her belly. Diaval’s eyes welled up a bit just from sheer empathy. He’d been fortunate enough to know the love of two parents, short as their time together may have been. The thought of being abandoned by one or both as a fledgeling caused a deep ache to well up in his chest.

He held her gently and brushed his cheek against hers, offering comfort in one of the ways his raven-self knew how. 

“Well, our children are gonna know all the love in the world. They’ll have Aurora, Riordan, Phillip … all of the Dark Fae. Pioden and Mera. Ulstead, one day. Ravens are amazin’ fathers with the grand exception of one, and they’ll have you as a brilliant mother. They’ll have it all.”

He felt her cheek shift with another smile. The pair of them looked at each other, affection blazing between them.

“Admit it, Diaval. You are going to spoil them at every possible opportunity, just as you did with Aurora.”

“Yes, obviously. That’s what ravens do. We protect and spoil our family with gifts! You have no idea what’s comin’, Maleficent.”

“Of course I do. I awoke this morning to you brooding over my belly as though I am some sort of …”

Diaval smirked at that, lifting one knee in preparation to run. He quickly kissed the faerie’s cheek.

“Like an egg? It’s my instinct to brood over our growin’ babies!”

As expected, he found an elbow in his belly and a dark wing thrust in his face. Releasing her, he rose to his feet and dived towards the rocky opening of the cave, though ended up tripping and falling as a green-gold bolt slammed into the backs of his knees. Defeated, he laid there on his front and watched as the hem of a black dress came to block out most of his vision.

“I am  _ not _ an egg. Foolish bird. If that is your idea of spoiling me, you have a few more things to learn.”

“I’m here for your every need,” he promised, rising onto one knee and brushing himself off. “I shall serve your every whim, O Great Magnificence. You won’t even have to lift a finger.”

Maleficent sighed delicately, watching him as he kissed the back of her hand. 

“Under different circumstances, we might have been able to enjoy all of this for what it is. I shall be needed at the castle soon, and you should present that torch to Aurora - as well as yourself as her Lord Chancellor, as difficult as such a position might be … She does miss you, darling, even if you might have convinced yourself she can do nothing but fear you.”

She was right, of course. Their nice morning could only go on for so long; there was business to attend to, some of which involved going to places Diaval still preferred to avoid, not just for his own sake but that of others. It would be his first time going back to the castle in his man-shape. Even in other forms, he had only gone to drop off little presents for Aurora and Riordan before many could lay eyes upon him.

Releasing Maleficent’s hand, he stood up and tried to appear somewhat confident. No matter how  _ he  _ felt about everything, there was a young woman in the Moors who needed her father. A protector and advisor. No matter what titles he carried or the travesties Mori’ka made him bear, it was a role he would never step away from.

That didn’t make him any less scared. That was something he couldn’t quite step away from, either.

He spent a while speaking with Maleficent a few moments more to make sure she was feeling alright following the brief talk about her mother. When her spirits were suitably raised, he retreated into the cave and donned his long, leather jacket, then reached for the cold iron of the torch on the ground. Even then, away from the Forest of Dreams, the aura of the ancient artefact was of an unsettling nature, as though it did not at all belong on mortal planes.

He turned and found Maleficent watching him from a small distance away, her features again beset with a frown. When she caught him looking, she quickly turned away and headed back outside.

The torch was heavy in his claws when he flew over the Forest of Waking. It was even heavier when he landed and transformed into his man-shape outside of the woodland castle, already ensnared within the sights of early risers.

Maleficent landed gracefully at his side, making sure to keep a wide berth of the torch. She gestured at him with a movement of her hand, and Diaval understood at once, pulling the torch tight against his form so that no fairy unwittingly flew into the iron and hurt themselves.

Diaval was more nervous than he anticipated.

Last time he had properly been at the castle, he’d nearly destroyed it. Even now, despite that the spires of the old castle had been repaired with magic, he could still see the cracks in the stone where walls and towers toppled under the strength of his claws. He possessed no true recollection of it, only fleeting memories here and there, but he’d heard from frightened fairies a story of three dragons sent by the Queen of Breoslaigh to terrorise the Moors. 

He held a vague memory of the nearby forests burning. The trees were since healed and the fairies calmed. What was not so easily repaired was a human life when it fell. Poor Aurora had almost been engulfed by his fire, and it was that thought that sickened him to his stomach.

Suddenly feeling unwell, Diaval hovered unsurely there on the idyllic hill. His skin turned cold and a slight sweat manifested at his forehead. His heart thrummed in panic, and he realised maybe he was not quite as ready to return as he’d thought. What if something else happened? If Mori’ka was able to parse information from him, why was he even here? Did the demon know that the torch had been recovered yet? What would he do when he knew?

“Maybe I shouldn’t …” he croaked, tightly gripping the torch to his chest.

Maleficent turned to face him, eyes flashing dangerously.

“The responsibility of everything Mori’ka has done is not yours, Diaval. These are your people. They know that you are not their enemy. You are a leader among them. Hold your head high and let your presence be known.”

It took a moment, but Diaval nodded and nervously headed for the open court of the castle.

It was early so not as busy as usual, though there were gatherings of fairies about the trees, streams, and the court. Some Dark Fae were making their way up the hills to join their leaders, silencing their chatter when they saw Diaval and Maleficent heading in the same direction. The three púca were there, too, stood on the stone walls and eating messily or listening to Queen Aurora muttering to herself as she paced before the throne.

Diaval nearly froze upon seeing her, a rush of ice cold catching his breath. She looked nervous, and was even wearing her sword, Maeve, on her hip. Did she know he was coming? What was happening to make her appear so stressed? He probably was not able to know, and that infuriated him to no end. 

Any fairies milling about in the court silently parted aside to let Diaval and Maleficent through. Aurora turned abruptly in a flourish of golden locks and pink flowers, her worried eyes setting on her parents at once. 

Diaval tried to keep his head high. He truly did. It proved difficult, however, even useless in the presence of one who had suffered in wake of his shapeshifting more than once. If not for Maleficent, Aurora would have been killed, Diaval’s fire used as a tool to enact a demon’s prejudices. They had come so close to losing her, and he could barely imagine a world without Aurora in it, let alone one where it was by his fire she was hurt and perished.

Stopping a small way away, Diaval knelt down on one knee, taking care to ignore the intense stares and stifled whispers. He held forth the Cumbrian Torch, raising it so that it could be seen by all present.

“The torch, Your Majesty. I was shown the way by a will-o’-the-wisp. The fairies didn’t know where it was ‘cause the legend was wrong. It was never given to them in the first place. It’s, er … a long story, but now we have the means to carry the flame of Tech Duinn.”

He watched Aurora unsurely, wondering if she’d heard a word he had said. She stared at him with wide eyes, then looked at the torch, then back at him again. Even the butterflies fluttering about her head didn’t seem to know what to do, landing on her hair and shoulders as she began to drift forwards.

The queen knelt down before him. Slowly, she brought his hand down and took a closer look at the torch, but only for a moment, taking it off him only to lay it down in the lustrous grass beside them. She smiled brightly, then, and leaned in to wrap her arms about his torso and positively  _ squeezed. _

“Hello, father.”

Diaval blinked down at her, bringing his arms about her in turn, utterly relieved.

“Hello, Aurora.”

There was a silence as they held each other, broken only by the tiniest little sniff from Maleficent nearby.

Over Aurora’s shoulder, Diaval saw that the three púca had since abandoned their meals and were watching the scene with marked interest. More accurately, they were watching  _ him,  _ their round, amber eyes set upon him as though he were a particularly plump and delicious looking mouse. He closed his eyes so that just for a moment, he could forget that they existed and enjoy the company of his daughter alone.

“I’m -“

“No,” Aurora swiftly interrupted, pulling away to hold his arms. “I  _ know  _ what you are going to say, and you need not. It was not you that night. It was our enemy. And now you have found the torch, father! Think of it this way: would it have found its way into the hands of someone who was less than deserving?”

Before Diaval could even begin to form a response, Fionnlagh the great snowy owl jumped down from his perch and waddled over to them to pick up the torch in his enormous black talons, holding it up to inspect it closely.

“Indeed! The magic of the Moors moves in mysterious ways! I have no doubt you were the one meant to find it, mister angry raven. Just as you should be the one to take the flame from Breoslaigh and carry it back to where it belongs, eh?” Tilting his head, he pecked curiously at the skeletal claws at the crown of the torch.

“What? Diaval managed, unsure if he had heard correctly.

“Oh, I know it’s probably the  _ last _ thing you want, laddie, but feel the energy flowing off this thing! It’s positively dripping with dark magic! Bleh!” Sticking out his tongue, he quickly dropped the torch back to the ground and took a few steps away from it. “It doesn’t really belong among the likes of the living, now, does it?”

Stunned by that, Diaval stared at the enormous owl in furious disbelief. At once, he stood up and squared his shoulders in a show of defiance.

“What?! But  _ I’m  _ alive. Do I look dead to you? Isn’t finding the torch enough?”

“Yes, you’re alive  _ now,  _ but there was a time you were dead, and so you are touched by the dark realm! Moreover, Mori’ka was a creation of Tech Duinn, so you should be able to wield the torch without ill effect. Anybody else, I fear, would begin to find themselves becoming severely hindered by that thing!” Fionnlagh expressed passionately, waving his wings about. Spinning his head to face Diaval again, the great orbs of his eyes narrowed. “Besides, you would’ve taken it up with or without my intervention. No fairy can wield it ‘cause it’s iron, and no human can because it would begin to tug at their very soul. You know it is your duty to help protect this land, raven!”

“I don’t need you to tell me that!” Diaval said furiously.

Maleficent stepped forth and silenced them all with a single glance. It was for the best, otherwise an untimely squabble would have unfolded before the eyes of the entire court. With a frown, Diaval took Aurora’s hand as she rose to her feet, and he eyed Fionnlagh with distaste.

“It is not Diaval’s responsibility to carry the flame,” Maleficent said firmly, the very vision of authority as she faced the spirit. 

“But it is his right to choose!”

“So it is, but a choice where there is only one right answer is not a choice at all. The three of  _ you _ are not fairies, nor are you human. You could carry the flame of Tech Duinn.”

“What?!” Fionnlagh hooted with great offence, just as Nagual and Impundulu dropped the bones in their talons in sheer surprise.

“Carry the torch!” Nagual squawked in disbelief. “Carry the torch! Us!”

Impundulu shook his great, curved beak, the feathered crest on his head standing on end. 

“Ahaha! And risk the wrath of the gods for going against our purpose? That torch is cursed! My talons are far more suited for battle.”

Feeling himself becoming angrier and angrier the more the púca sung out their reservations, Diaval moved to Maleficent’s side and glared stubbornly up at them.

“Then where were you when Mori’ka was bein’ attacked by humans? He was a livin’ thing, too, yet he carried the torch while you lot were nowhere in sight. I’m not excusin’ anything that he’s done, but I’m not gonna ignore your role of absence when the world needed you. Even before you were trapped in those artefacts, you were all as silent as the gods. Is that what Tir na Nog really wants?”

Fionnlagh’s black beak fell open in horror. 

“Hoo!! How dare you, raven! I have never been addressed with such disrespect! I helped you by tellin’ you about the torch, didn’t I? That is what the púca are  _ supposed  _ to be. Guides! Storytellers! Glorified signposts! Mori’ka drifted from his path, and look what happened to him!  _ I  _ am not meeting the same fate.”

“He was expendable to you and Tir na Nog. Why? ‘Cause he was a raven? From the legends I’ve heard of púca, they mislead as much as they show the way.” Diaval heard the mutters of Dark Fae. Whether disapproving or acknowledging, he wasn’t sure. He retrieved the Cumbrian Torch and held it up, and was satisfied to see Fionnlagh take a nervous step back at its sudden proximity. “I’m not the only one that can carry this thing, but I’m the only one that’s willin’. I’ll do it, not ‘cause you’re tellin’ me to, but to protect the kingdoms from Mori’ka’s tyranny and the mistakes of the Otherworld.”

Fionnlagh shook himself angrily. Gone was the soft and well-meaning skin that he wore. He appeared a true owl in that moment, wild eyes fixing on the much smaller Diaval as though he wanted to dismember him with that very dangerous beak. His two brothers beyond appeared more cautious, but no matter how much they claimed they could not get involved, they  _ were _ dangerous. And often suspicious, too, for they never spoke of the Otherworld and the gods that they were allied with.

“We  _ do  _ have a role in all this,” Fionnlagh insisted, his musical accent slipping away. “You just can’t know what it is!”

“Shut UP, clouds-for-brains!” Nagual screeched, lobbing a bone in Fionnlagh’s direction. It simply disappeared somewhere in the puff of the snowy owl’s feathers. 

“I’ll peck that stupid beak of yours right off!” Impundulu bellowed, then his long neck swivelled and his golden eyes narrowed at Diaval. “Pah! You know nothing, mortal. Look at all of our beautiful children! Look at all the good we brought into the world! What have you done apart from get trampled all over by fae traitors and humans?!”

There came an audible gasp from Fionnlagh and Nagual at that. Diaval dropped the torch, a sudden and very intense instinct welling up within and reclaiming his mind to a prior state before he had known human consciousness. There was a rush of wind and leaves and then he was a raven of the same gargantuan size as the others, hopping over to Impundulu to peck him viciously right on his breast.

“OW!” The vulture exclaimed dramatically, stumbling from his perch on the wall. “Everyone saw that! EVERYONE!”

Diaval just cawed loudly at him and spread his wings, quite unsure how the talking thing worked in this shape. As the four shapeshifters came together in a petty brawl, the rest of the court watched on in a mixture of amusement, confusion, and even suspicion. After all, the vaguely ominous words of their forefathers had not gone unheard.

“I didn’t know he could do that,” Aurora said to her mother, referring to the fact her father’s raven-shape was many times larger than herself. She ducked just as a cleanly-scraped bone was flung somewhere near her head, and watched with concern as a myriad of feathers came raining down upon the court. “I’m just glad he’s alright.”

Maleficent, who was briefly pinching the bridge of her nose, sighed and then looked down towards the torch sitting less-than-innocently there in the grass. Perhaps Fionnlagh was right. Perhaps it had more of an impact on the living than even he knew. A dark magic strong enough to control even a Phoenix and bend her to the whims of Tech Duinn and its gods.

Quickly, she took Aurora’s arm and guided her away from it back towards the throne.

“ _ Birds, _ ” she said disapprovingly, concealing her own concern. “It is time for us to go, Beastie. We can dwell on all this later. Have you decided who else you would like to meet this Marigold Hill?”

“The Dark Fae leaders have all agreed to come,” Aurora said, her gaze flicking worriedly over to where four enormous birds were making threatening displays and fighting indiscriminately among themselves. “Father should be there, too, but it could be news of Perceforest’s reclamation has not reached Orlaith yet. Unless the raven spies have told her already.” She sighed heavily. “Are you able to ensure none of them are able to eavesdrop on our meeting?”

“I wouldn’t worry about the ravens, Aurora. I have flown throughout the Moors and put them all into an enchanted sleep until their curse is lifted. There will be no raven fledgelings this year,” Maleficent assured her, albeit with a note of sadness, one which Aurora quickly picked up on.

“Only two,” the young queen said lightly, nodding towards her mother’s belly. “It is sad for the ravens, but at least they are at peace. Now that we have the torch, it won’t be long until they can be awoken again. Shall we, um … leave them to it?” She asked, watching the squabble nearby with a worried smile. 

“We should. Your father will return to his senses shortly. I’m sure there are fairies here waiting for their chance to enquire for his advice.”

Aurora’s features brightened at that. Smiling, she gestured at the clan leaders nearby and invited them forth.

“Alright. Then let’s meet her.”

On the ground, an iron torch and the low morning sun came to meet in the light, and a shadow was cast across the court.


	18. Of Olden Names and Graves

Aurora felt very, very nervous standing there at the very borders of the Moors.

The Stone Guardians, ancient, worn statues of spirits or gods that stood along the southern border, flanked the small group as they waited. Udo, Borra, and Shrike remained a short distance away, arms folded across their chests as they gazed stoically out towards the open grasslands beyond the forests, but Maleficent remained at Aurora’s side, her presence silent but strong. It comforted the queen a great deal to have her there, but it also irritated her somewhat that it was a complete necessity to have the four strongest of the fae around to protect her. 

Ulstead’s towering castle could not be seen beyond the stretching forests behind them, but Perceforest’s could be just about seen in the far distance, its towers dark against the blue sky. She felt no fondness when she looked at it. Perceforest was not her home and it never had been. Her bloodline truly meant nothing to her, but it still made her nervous to meet somebody who no doubt thought they had succeeded where she had failed. 

“They’re coming,” Maleficent announced, her keen eyes set on the emerald-green hills ahead. “And Phillip has just entered the Moors from the west. What good timing. We’ll have all human nobility here before long.”

“Mother,” Aurora chided gently. She steeled herself, watching the dark blob upon the hills that must have been Marigold’s approaching party. They were on horses, she realised, so the approach was not slow. The thundering of hooves upon the earth shook the ground beneath their feet. Even Maleficent was made nervous by that, her hands tightening about the dark length of her staff.

There were seven of them altogether, their horses decorated with raggedy insignias that bore the traditional colours of Perceforest and its golden dragon. The riders were all dressed as knights, covered from head to toe in steel. The knights arranged themselves in a line a way away from the Stone Guardians, and then the middle most one trotted forwards.

The knight swept their helmet from their head, and from it spilled an abundance of golden curls. The young woman held her helmet in the crook of her arm and gazed upon Aurora with pale, hazel eyes that almost seemed to be as golden as her hair. 

Marigold dropped down from her horse without aid and retrieved a handkerchief from her breastplate to dab the sweat from her brow. Looking up at Aurora again, she smiled a peculiar sort of smile that could not be read. Neither did she bow or make any sort of gesture of respect. Aurora did not mind that so much, but Maleficent stiffened beside her when the stranger made her approach. 

Marigold chanced a glance about their surroundings, appearing impressed by the statues and the enormous trees.

“What a nice kingdom,” she commented, not sounding entirely committed to the observation. She turned her attention back to Aurora. She was closer now, and there was a feline quality to her angular features that could not previously be seen. “What a nice queen for inviting me here. It’s better than anything Queen Orlaith has done, though we do appreciate the weapons she sent.”

Aurora didn't quite know how to perceive such a comment. She was keen not to dislike a fellow leader, and so it seemed she would have to be patient.

“Thank you for coming, Lady Hill,” she replied graciously. “This is my mother, Maleficent, and those beyond are the clan leaders of the Dark Fae.”

Marigold glanced up at them and smiled, though it was not entirely friendly in nature.

“Nice backup, too! They could probably squash us all into the dirt, I know that. That’s why I’d prefer to challenge you one-on-one.”

_What?_

Gaping at her, Aurora tried to piece that together in her head. A challenge? Her eyes fell to the very heavy looking sword at Marigold’s waist. Perhaps she wasn’t foolish for feeling nervous about the meeting, after all. She had been training as much as she could over the past couple of months, but she wasn’t a warrior. Warrior queens existed in stories but she thought it was possibly too late for her to make that sort of name for herself.

And yet there stood a warrior before her, a would-be queen that had defied her corrupt father and overthrown the pseudo-monarchy with the support of her people. A warrior that had arrived at the Moors that day in search of a _challenge._ Aurora could not deny the twinge of jealousy that awoke within her, then.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Marigold called heartily, sounding older than her years. “This is how the men do it, isn’t it? Why should we be any different?”

“Because we don’t have anything to fight over,” Aurora explained as calmly as she could, trying in vain to hide the quiver in her voice.

“What about a claim to the throne of Perceforest?”

“I do not want to claim it. I have never lived in Perceforest, and neither has my family. King Stefan might have been my family by blood, but he was not my father.”

“I see! That must be why you don’t recognise your own family by blood when you see it.”

Caught off guard yet again, Aurora looked at Maleficent, who seemed just as confused, and then back towards Marigold who was smirking a very satisfied sort of smirk. Then, she _really_ looked at her. The flowing blonde hair, the freckles across her nose, the diminutive height. It couldn’t be. She had never really considered that there might be more family in Perceforest - but of course there was.

“Who are you?” She questioned curiously.

“Marigold, of course. The one and only. My mother, rest her soul … she was a bastard daughter of your grandfather, the war-hungry old king. We are firmly cousins, Aurora. Now that my oaf of a father is gone, I am free to claim Perceforest as my own, child of a bastard though I may be. My grandmother was a descendant of the Pendragons and your grandfather knew it. If anything, _my_ claim to Perceforest is even stronger than yours! From this day, I am shedding the wretched name of my father and taking that of my ancestors. And I’ll take the ancestral home along with it!”

The metallic _shrirk_ of a sword being drawn pierced the air. Marigold Pendragon held that enormous sword aloft with ease, her eyes alight with youthful confidence and vigour. For the terrible things her father had done to her, she had emerged from the other side a formidable and powerful fighter who was sure and confident about her place in the world. 

Aurora watched her, mouth agape with pure surprise. Then, she untied her silk cape and hung it from Maleficent’s staff.

“Aurora,” the faerie hissed. “Don’t be foolish. You will _not_ fight her.”

“It’s alright, mother. I know you won’t allow me to come to harm. She fought for her freedom, and now fighting is the language that she knows. I am not _entirely_ useless with a sword anymore, and it’s time I addressed the matter of Perceforest once and for all. This is my fight to be had.”

Maleficent flashed her fangs towards this supposed cousin of Aurora’s, though did not try to stop her again. This was, after all, a decision to be made by the Queen of the Moors and her alone, and the faerie had since come to respect such an authority. Even if it meant watching her own daughter draw her sword and move closer to the dangerous stranger ahead.

“I do not deny your claim to Perceforest,” the queen said clearly, so that all could hear. “I do not consider it my own. It seems right that the kingdom is restored to the Pendragon name and ruled by a queen with ties to its people and heritage.” Regardless, she drew Maeve from her hilt and faced the other woman head on, twirling the sword between her fingers. “But you deserve the right to claim it from its prior kings for yourself.”

Marigold smiled at that, and it was certainly a smile that seemed more genuine than before.

Their swords clashed.

Aurora realised all too late that Phillip had, in actuality, been going easy on her all along. 

The strength she was met with seemed inhuman. Just how _long_ had Marigold been training for? It was only by quick reaction that Aurora was able to keep hold of her sword, but her arm went swinging wildly away and left an opening far too large. Quick on her feet, she darted backwards and then circled her opponent.

“We have a lot of catching up to do, cousin,” she offered, watching Marigold’s sword closely. It twisted through the air and they met in combat yet again, Aurora forced into a defensive stance to meet the powerful strokes of the blade. She was getting out of breath already and found it difficult to speak, but she did her best between the strikes of their swords. “You might consider allying yourself with the Moors instead of Queen Orlaith.”

“Why should we?” Marigold counteracted at once, batting Maeve away again with ease. Aside from the sweat at her temples, she showed no signs of exertion. “Breoslaigh has a powerful army.”

“An army that turns against its queen day by day. Ally yourselves with the Moors and you will have the power of Ulstead and Wickpon behind you, too.” Aurora shielded a blow that almost sent her flying to the ground. She stumbled, but quickly returned to form and defended the next one. “And if all goes to plan… Breoslaigh … will be freed of Orlaith’s rein and we shall all stand as one, united.”

“Something that isn’t going to come without great losses, Aurora. My people have suffered enough.”

Aurora held her sword over her head to block the next strike, and it was strong enough that she was sent down onto her knees. She saw the Dark Fae shift anxiously as they watched, the bright eyes of her mother gleaming with fear and rage. She didn’t need them to help, she reminded herself. She was Queen of the Moors, and she _could_ do these things alone.

Her hand stung and ached with the effort, but she tarried on.

“You don’t have to fight. Your kingdom can recover. This is not allegiance, but a friendship. Allow the fairies to safely visit Perceforest and we can begin to trade!”

“How do I know the fairies won’t turn on us?”

“They _won’t,_ ” Aurora insisted, jabbing towards Marigold’s shoulder, only to have the attack resisted with barely any effort at all. “Fairies are peaceful by nature. The strongest of them will defend themselves when attacked, that is all. They long for _peace_ with humankind!”

“And Maleficent?”

Feeling a swell of anger at the nonchalant way her own mother was brought up, Aurora jabbed fiercely again, and her sword bounced off the steel protecting her opponent’s chest. Marigold seemed surprised by that, pulling away just for a moment.

“My mother serves the Moors. She fights for peace, as do all of her kind.”

“And the demon, Diablo?”

That made her even angrier. Becoming all too bold, she attempted to strike the younger woman again, only to have her breath kicked straight out of her body as an armoured foot struck out at her stomach. Maeve was flung from her hand, clattering somewhere nearby. Entirely winded, Aurora landed flat on her back and tried her best to recover as the sharp tip of a sword pointed formidably near her throat.

The sword was blasted away by green magic. Turning her head, Aurora saw her mother stood with her dark wings spread wide, her dangerous, green power burning at her eyes and fingers, but the faerie thankfully did not move from her spot with the others.

Aurora faced Marigold and stared defiantly up at her.

“There is only one demon antagonising us and that is the spirit controlling Orlaith. My father has fought harder than anyone to oppose the queen and her puppets. You will _not_ render my family mere monsters when it is thanks to them your kingdom is not buried in eternal Winter. They were the ones to defeat the Moon Witch, and _we_ shall be the ones to remove Orlaith from her seat of power. _Together_.”

Marigold considered that, flicking her long hair out of her eyes and stepping back. With her battle won, she sheathed her sword and put her hands on her hips.

“Well. You’re not very good at fighting, are you? I was expecting something a little more from the Queen of the Moors.”

The remark was not spoken in a way that was meant to be insulting. Rather, it was more of a light-hearted observation, but Aurora wasn’t sure whether it was supposed to be condescending or not. She glared at the other woman and shakily rose to her feet once her sword was retrieved, keeping her head held high in wake of her loss. It would not do to have the Moors tremble at the feet of an opponent. Her resolve was as strong as ever, and she knew that the loss had been a necessary one.

“Probably, yes. I wield a sword because I must. I prefer to wield kindness and empathy towards those who have suffered. That is the strength of the Moors and my family, and it shall always be my strength, too. Now that Perceforest is yours, will you lend that same strength towards your people?”

“Of course I will.” Marigold smiled again, the treasure of her eyes glittering in the sunlight. “I hold no true ill-will against you, you know. We can all agree that King Stefan was a monster, but you are not. I think you ended up right where you were supposed to be. With the bare feet, the flowers in your hair, you look half a fairy yourself.” Looking Aurora up and down a moment, she then held out a hand.

Aurora eyed it warily, then clasped it. They held each other’s forearms, somehow learning more about each other in those few seconds than the entire time of their introduction and fight. This woman was her flesh and blood. She was family. She was a girl who had fought trials of her own and come away with a crown. Perhaps it was not really jealousy that Aurora felt in her presence, but admiration. Familiarity.

“Then might we unite our kingdoms with friendship and stand together?” Aurora asked bravely, still firmly grasping her cousin’s arm.

Marigold tilted her head, pretending to think very deeply about that question.

“Maybe. If the war is won. Until then, Perceforest stands alone. We don’t _deserve_ to get pulled into this war of yours. We’ve gotten rid of the man responsible for poisoning King John. That is our part to play, and consider it a gesture of good faith.”

It was better than nothing, and fair. Relieved and hopeful, Aurora nodded, and the pair released each other’s arms. Doing her utmost not to appear as fatigued as she felt, she sheathed her sword and gestured gracefully towards the Moors, staying the tired trembling of her hand.

“You and your men are welcome to come inside and meet the fairies, if you like. Allies or not, you are family.”

“Aurora,” Maleficent interceded brusquely, stepping forwards with the others, but she was wise enough to keep her staff and wings lowered as she regarded Marigold with a stern frown. “No doubt the fairies would be keen to meet them all, but I would advise against inviting strangers into our midst at a time like this. Until the war is won.”

There was a brief pause as they mulled it over. Aurora privately agreed with her mother despite being keen to get to know this cousin of hers. The Moors came first, always, and indeed, bringing strangers into their home could prove a mistake. To her surprise, Marigold simply nodded and turned away to return to her patient steed nearby.

“Until the war is won,” she repeated soundly, and pulled herself up into the saddle. 

Behind her, the six knights removed their stifling helmets now that they were in relative safety, and Aurora was very surprised to see that they were all women of varying ages. They wore fierce expressions, and she truly wondered what sort of miserable fates met those that had stood against them. If Edmund’s Hill’s severed finger was anything to go by … well, it probably was not the most pleasant thing to consider.

“Now, I’m off to claim my crown and land! _Maybe_ when this is all over, we might see each other. My ladies and I will gladly show you the best ways somebody of your stature can fight. Thank you for meeting my challenge with grace, short-lived as it was.” Marigold scrunched her nose in amusement, though her words were not spoken unkindly. 

Aurora sighed. She had the feeling she was never going to be allowed to live this fight down, but it would have to be worth it. A friendship with Perceforest was the best possible outcome, and if she had to take a loss to earn it … then so be it.

* * *

Placed onto the queen’s throne by Aurora herself, Diaval lounged back and tried for all the world to look like he wasn’t actually fretting and worrying about some rogue transformation taking hold and frightening the fairies again. His little debacle with the púca had hardly helped matters, but the fairies seemed just as frightened as them as they were of him. In fact, even more so! 

The other shapeshifters were still milling about the court, grumpily nursing scrapes and bald spots among their feathers. Diaval had rightfully come out on top following their little brawl, something he was also trying not to seem too satisfied about, but he did glare suspiciously at them from the throne every now and then because it really felt as though they all knew more than they were letting on. It was like getting blood out of a stone when he addressed them. Maybe pecking at them all hadn’t been the best idea, but it had certainly felt good at the time.

While most of the fairies were still a bit nervous around him, others were not so and they approached him with their concerns and fairy problems, which he addressed as well as he could given the circumstances. Sometimes, all the fairies needed was a listening ear and gentle advice, something he was always all too happy to provide (and not _just_ for the gossip, no matter what Maleficent said). At that moment, it helped him as much as it helped them, for his mind was turned from his troubles for a time and instead back to his duty.

“Hogtail said _what?”_ He exclaimed at Pinto, who ended up sitting on his thigh at the latter end of the afternoon, her legs swinging merrily. Her mushroom husband, Sporit, sat opposite her on the other thigh, nodding along with Pinto as she regaled Diaval with her musical babbling. “She really called you a spiky little nuisance? Why’d she call you such a thing?”

Pinto spoke dramatically in her fairy language, waving her arms about to really hammer home her complaints.

“Hm. That’s not a very nice thing to call someone else, either, y’know. Are you sure you weren’t just playin’ in her flower garden again? She works hard on that!”

At that, the mischievous fairy looked away and bashfully scratched at her quills, mumbling something under her breath.

“There you go, then. The Moors is massive, there are plenty of places for you to play. And when someone calls you somethin’ that is hurtful, turn the other cheek and walk away. You can be the bigger person, Pinto. Or, well … porcupine. Metaphorically.”

Pinto struck a noble pose, then, sticking out her furry chest, and Sporit clapped his little hands delightedly. The sound of their giggles was uplifting and put other fairies at ease enough they gathered and fluttered about the grassy dais of the throne, eager to listen to their raven Lord Chancellor’s great wisdom. With some of them, at least, it really began to feel as though nothing had happened at all. That he could earn their forgiveness and things _could_ go back to normal.

So, he took the opportunity to tell those that would listen the story of what happened in Breoslaigh that day. He told them of the newly healed fairy ring and how the curse upon the kingdom was broken, and he told them about Drugian the Red and how she was hurt and controlled by Mori’ka. And he told them about the Veiled Queen, another puppet of the demon, frank and honest in his approach. Mori’ka was a wicked manipulator, he told them. So good at it was he that he had even manipulated the amazing and steadfast Diaval.

“The dragon you saw wasn’t really me. There’s no way on this earth I’d do somethin’ like that to the Moors and all of you. Still, it was my body he used and I’m very sorry to have frightened you all. I really am. I’m gonna make sure that he can’t do anythin’ like that to you again.”

The fairies spoke among themselves at that, their tiny voices alight with curiosity and hope. Pinto stood up from her place on Diaval’s lap and walked along his thigh until she could flop down onto his stomach and hug as much of him as she could. Sporit came to join her - and then did the colourful crowd of fairies gathering about them, all of them fluttering in to fondly attach themselves to him.

With his face suddenly full of flowers and wings and pollen, Diaval spluttered with surprise and had to fight back a sneeze or two. There was a time he would have brushed them all off simply to keep up appearances - but that time was long past, he reminded himself. He wasn’t Maleficent’s right hand raven anymore. He served the Moors, and the fairies would always be his friends. Family, even. Family to a raven without a true unkindness of his own.

So, he allowed their affection just a little longer, guilt manifesting there alongside the joy.

It was … strange, to say the least. The fairies flew from him in spiralling clouds of wondrous colours, laughing happily as they went, but the court was still enshrouded with sorrow. The weight of what Mori’ka had done would never truly leave. The curse of his anger was as much a part of the Moors as the rivers and the rain, a dark history concealed beneath forests of magic and light. When Diaval looked into the eyes of the more cautious pixies and the Dark Fae, he could see a sort of gloomy fear lingering within. They could feel it as much as he could. Perhaps more.

He set Pinto and Sporit back down on the ground and reached to take the torch leaning against the rear of the throne. So cursed was its presence that all the gloom in the world felt to orbit around it. Typical, really. He thought of all the tales he’d heard of magical swords being pulled from lakes and stones, hammers and spears and cloaks wielded by gods, but he had to be the one to find the death-touched Cumbrian Torch, a responsibility he had never asked for and yet here it was, because there was nobody else.

He sighed. Hearing a chirrup from near the ground, he glanced down to find Pinto with a supportive paw on his boot, offering the biggest smile she could muster.

“Diadoot,” she said affirmatively with a nod, then she took Sporit’s hand and scampered away.

Diaval was not left without audience, however. With his attention freed, others came forwards. Forest fae, whose bare feet were eerily silent in the grass, a group of them moving closer with a graceful synchronisation. Most of them appeared fairly young, their dark wings glittering prettily in the light of the sun. The leader was an elder, a woman that appeared so ancient that it boggled Diaval’s mind to consider just how old she might have been and all the things she had seen. She was older than even Merin, but she stood just as tall and showed no indication of being frail.

She bowed her head lightly. Diaval did the same for her, rising from the throne and quickly placing the torch down upon it.

“What’ll it be?” He began nervously. “A joke is one warm mouse. A word of advice is two. Full blown ancient raven wisdom is one precious stone, but I warn you that my preference is to go freestyle, take it or leave it.”

The sharp, wizened features of the elder did not so much as twitch.

“Just kiddin’,” Diaval quickly added, awkwardly waving off his prior words. “If you’re lookin’ for Maleficent, she’s with Aurora, er … somewhere. Can’t have gone far.”

“It is you I sought, Grá Príomha _._ ”

“Oh. Right, well, what can I do for you?” Diaval folded his arms and stuck out his chest a little bit, trying to look somewhat important before the forest fae. _Prime Love,_ they called him. It must have been some ancient sort of address for the Phoenix’s favoured mate. He allowed that to stroke his ego. Just a little bit.

The elder watched him closely, the green of her eyes fierce and sharp. The nature of her gaze was enough to make Diaval feel like a mere fledgling within her sights. The Dark Fae were long-lived beings, though there were few of the truly ancient ones left. It was unclear whether she was looking at him with disapproval or if she simply found everything around her disappointing.

“This is the first time I have left the island in centuries,” the faerie said tersely. “I have seen three generations of the Phoenix. The world has returned to a prior state, once again standing upon the very edge of a blade. Which way it falls depends on which way the blade tilts. We, the forest fae, are the descendants of Mori’ka. We bear his dark wings and wit, but not the burden of his crimes. That has fallen upon you. Your clan stands with you in gratitude, Grá Príomha.”

Diaval jumped slightly when the elder suddenly struck her chest with her closed fist. The others behind her copied the gesture, vocalising their assent. 

“Right. Thank you,” he attempted with a smile, unsure whether he was supposed to strike his chest back. He settled on a little bow, instead. “If it pleases you, the name Diaval suits me just fine.”

The elder might have smiled, then. It showed more in her eyes than it did in her face, but it wasn’t all joy; there was something else lingering there, too. The same sorrow of an unseen source, present in the way her gaze flickered away from him after mere moments, as though expecting to see something damning. She closed her eyes, and it appeared for all the world as though she was grieving something.

“I am sure, though I feel you have changed the meaning of such a word, at least among our kind. Merin spoke of you often. The tale of a small creature with humble beginnings saving the world from a witch has become the favourite story of our people’s children.” She raised a thin eyebrow at that. “I tell it to them over and over again. They believe that they, too, will one day change the world. I thought it might sound better coming from the raven himself.”

Shifting her long, black-brown wings, the elder revealed that two young fae children had been hiding behind her the entire time. Two girls, one a bit older than the other. They squeaked when they saw Diaval and clung to the older faerie’s legs, but they found themselves thrust forwards by her wings and ended up shyly standing before him, scuffing their little bare feet in the ground.

Diaval’s initial confusion was swiftly overwhelmed by how adorable the poor things were. 

Fighting the urge to fuss over them in case he frightened them off, he instead crouched down so that he was near enough at their height, boasting the friendliest smile he could possibly muster.

“Hello. I’m Diaval!” He bowed his head towards them, then peered up at the elder with a frown. “Are you sure? It isn’t really the nicest story in the world, is it?”

“Such is the nature of fairytales. They are often unhappy things. Children cannot be spared the darkness of the world.”

A bit perturbed by those vaguely ominous words, Diaval turned his attention back to the two girls and smiled brightly again to try and ease them. Their big, curious green eyes were as round as moons, and they looked at each other in silent communication. One of them took a very bold step forwards and carefully prodded at the tip of Diaval’s pointed nose, and then immediately backed away with a giggle. 

“Excuse me? A raven’s beak is his pride and joy, I’ll have you know,” he told them, raising his eyebrows when he only earnt himself some more giggling. “D’you really want to hear the story of The Raven and the Moon Witch again? As told by the very raven himself?”

The two girls nodded vehemently and scrambled to join him when he sat down there on that little grassy hill. They fell silent and stared, and it was strange to see their eyes so filled with wonder. It really was just a story to them, one that was used as a tool of motivation by the older fae, a tale of underdogs and villains and true love. Diaval knew just how horrific it had all been in actuality. He had lived it himself, and it was a significantly colder story in his mind. 

“Alright. Here we go. Once upon a time, there was a raven and a very powerful faerie called Maleficent …”

For their sake, he kept it reasonably child-friendly. They watched him as though he was a character in a play, gasping at the appropriate moments. Others slowly joined in to listen, too, even the three púca, who had their bodies faced away but were clearly listening to every word. The sorrow and despair was kept to a minimum, and Diaval told the story as having a happy ending: that the raven was brought back from Tech Duinn and he married his true love, and that was that.

The tale wasn’t quite over yet, however. He knew it, and so did everybody else.

The two girls were satisfied at least, and once everybody eventually dispersed back to whatever it was they were doing, they invited Diaval to turn into all sorts of creatures and chase them about the court. Like him, their favourite was the enormous black bear that was certainly in a better mood these days. They rode about on his back or held onto clumps of his fur, dangling from his sides. The forest fae, namely the elder, silently watched them play, and their sharp faces were softened with something Diaval could not quite put a name to.

When the fun was over and Diaval was very much out of breath, he sent the girls back to their kin and moved over to the elder again, trying to control his wheezing. She watched him in silence. It was not a comfortable sort of stare, so Diaval flopped back down into the throne and waited for the world to come back into focus.

“Did … you really just bring ‘em for the story?” He asked once it no longer felt like his lungs were about to give up on him entirely.

There was a pause, and then the elder spoke:

“Acts of kindness are what change this world for the better.”

Diaval thought about that, dabbing sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

“You’re right. Well, thanks for bringing them. They’re good kids. It makes me even more excited for my own little ones,” he said with pride. He smiled and drifted into a pleasant daydream, imagining that he could see a pair of young twins running about the court. Maleficent was there, too, trying to usher them back to her.

It made for a nice few seconds, but when the elder walked away without so much as another word, she left a hollow confusion in her wake.

Thankfully, he didn’t have the time to dwell on it. Feeling himself suitably reacquainted with the court and his duties, he headed down the hill away from the castle and towards the forest for a break, only to see that an Ulsteadian carriage had since arrived on the edge of the western path. Phillip was emerging with Riordan in tow, and he placed the boy down and held his hands to help him take a few enthusiastic steps forwards.

Elated to see them, Diaval approached and knelt down to hold out his hands, encouraging Riordans’s determined toddle towards him.

“You’re gettin’ so big!” He commended, laughing when the toddler’s efforts sent him planting down onto his face. “Oh, dear! Up you get, let’s try again!”

Not at all put off, Riordan climbed back up to his feet and beamed at Diaval. His fluffy blonde hair was sticking up in all directions, and his blue eyes were enormous with excitement as he landed in Diaval’s hands.

“Wow! That was more walking than I ever like to do!” 

“Afternoon, Diaval,” Phillip greeted politely, watching them both with a grin. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? How are things?” He added in a more serious sort of tone that was very Phillip, but it clearly came from a place of concern. 

“Well, y’know,” Diaval said somewhat dismissively, shrugging and bringing Riordan into his chest. “Better, I think. Today’s been the best day for a while. How’re things in Ulstead?”

“Better, too. Not enough that we can begin bringing fairies back just yet, but better since the news about -“ Phillip stopped himself just in time and had the decency to look somewhat guilty when he continued. “Erm … yes, they’re just fine, and so is my father. Would you feel up to taking Riordan for his dinner?”

It was a rather tactful way of asking Diaval to not return to the court so that important discussions could be held, without a doubt, but the shapeshifter said nothing of it. Better days like this could not be allowed to fool him, of course. His presence still posed a danger. Everything served as a rather painful reminder of that fact, but he smiled as not to allow any bitterness to show through.

“Are you hungry, my little princeling? Shall daideó take you for some good Moors cuisine? Maybe we can try you on your first rodent, eh? It’s better than all that roasted bird floatin’ about in Ulstead!”

The little joke was worth it just to see Phillip pale just slightly.

With a smirk, Diaval carried Riordan off into the magical woodlands beyond, inwardly grateful that he was still trusted enough to take care of the boy alone.

* * *

He was happy to see Riordan again and to have the opportunity to spend time with him. Of course he was. He loved the boy and would be his grand-raven, his friend, and a protector for all the years that he had left. It did not stop his mood from turning and twisting up and down, back and forth, disturbing his previously fairly serene thoughts into ones of anxiety. 

For several hours he showed Riordan about the nearby wonders of the Forest of Waking, all the way until the sky began to turn dark. The little boy’s belly full of tasty delights they had found about the trees and bushes, he fell soundly asleep against Diaval’s chest, leaving the shapeshifter alone with his thoughts and growing worries.

He could transform at any second. Maybe he would think of something that made him upset and he would trigger whatever it was within him that would not comply. Maybe the forest would make him fall deeper into his animal instincts and he would become a bear again, only interested in hunting and food. Or maybe it would just happen for no reason at all. And then poor Riordan would be left alone, or worse …

What if he walked into something he wasn’t supposed to hear if he went to take him back? Maybe that was what Mori’ka wanted. Maybe the demon was somehow watching everything through him and was feeding him negative thoughts to make him go back. Or maybe Diaval was just being utterly ridiculous and unreasonable, working himself up into a panic that would only make his fears come to reality.

He felt tired and sick to his stomach that evening, even though he had barely done anything at all. He’d just hung around the court and the fairies to look after them in Aurora’s absence, but it felt as though he’d run for several miles without any sort of sustenance. Despite that, he felt too agitated to remain still and so paced about the forest a bit, measuring his breathing so that he could stay as calm as possible. Eventually, he abruptly exited the thicket in a burst of pink petals and flower buds and tried to catch the attention of any nearby fairy.

Strangely, Udo was hanging about nearby doing nothing in particular, and rather quite conveniently. He pretended to be surprised upon seeing Diaval and Riordan emerge from the forest. However, for all his many gifts, he wasn’t a very good actor.

“Ah! Diaval! I was … My, how marvellous the Moors looks this time of year.”

Despite himself, Diaval felt a twinge of amusement at that. He approached with some relief, grateful that he hadn’t been entirely alone after all. Udo being sent to check up on them was not done out of mistrust but out of concern. He understood that.

“It’s beautiful,” he agreed, casting a quick glance back at the multicoloured firefly fairies drifting slowly about the trunks of the trees. “Would you mind taking the prince back to his mother? I have, um … y’know. Raven things. Very important. Not that … not that _he_ isn’t -“

“Oh. Say no more, my friend. I am sure that these raven things must be very important indeed. Incomprehensible to other birds.”

A swell of guilt kept Diaval silent. His cheeks tinged with heat. How uncaring and selfish he must have seemed passing off his own daughter’s son. A strange way of showing love to his own family, indeed, but it had seemed a good idea moments ago. It was for the best, wasn’t it? But an unpleasant thought lingered: how often would he have to do the same with his own children for their own safety?

It had been an oddly long and tiring sort of day. The joy he’d felt upon returning to his people with the artefact they needed had come in a short, exhausting spurt, so brief that there was the possibility it hadn’t even been entirely real. Was it wrong to feel happy about being around his people when he had very nearly destroyed some of them?

Something of his spiralling thoughts must have shown in his face, for Udo reached forth and gently took Riordan from his arms, plain understanding there to be seen. With the boy safely contained in the crook of his arm, he placed his free hand on Diaval’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

“I have been watching you and meaning to speak with you again. I am grateful that our forefathers have been able to return to our people, but they are sure of themselves to the point of being emotionally distant. Some might say inconsiderate, as strong and knowledgeable as they are. I don’t care what they say about the torch. Such a thing does have an effect on you as much as anyone else, both its dark power within and the burden of responsibility that comes with it.” Udo spoke softly, giving Diaval’s shoulder the tiniest of squeezes before letting go. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn. I knew my sister better than any. I know the wounds that she leaves behind. What enables you to carry the torch is your ability to continue to shine in the darkness, no matter how shrouded the world becomes. Your strength is the reason many still walk among us now. It is natural to doubt and even dislike yourself for all that has been, but you must not let the unkindness of the past win. You have emerged something far greater than the things that Wynne and Mori’ka tried to make you. Even if it often may not feel like it.”

Quite unable to form words that would prove a worthy follow up, Diaval allowed a moment for the weight of such kind words to sink in. His guilt did not depart, perhaps even worsening from a constant need of reassurance, but he did acknowledge that such feelings did not always tell the truth. He knew that, he had said such things to Maleficent on several occasions because he truly believed in the goodness within her. He had said them without properly realising just how difficult it was to see what loved ones saw.

“Thank you,” he said at last, and swallowed thickly. He was genuinely grateful and surprised, for Udo was usually a man of few words. He spoke when it truly mattered.

“No. Thank you, Diaval. When I discovered that my sister had been resurrected by the Moon spirits, I’m sure you can imagine my pain. And my relief. What a terrible thing love can be at its worst. Thanks to you facing her against all odds, I found peace, realising full well what she deserved. This wicked memory we have of her shall fade with the Feth Fiadha in time.” The faerie bowed his pale, stoic head. His snow-white hair positively gleamed in the moonlight, as did his magnificent wings, their feathers glittering with frost. “And you have never feared me despite me being her twin.”

“What? Never,” Diaval replied quickly and sincerely. “The only faerie I’m scared of these days is Borra. Sometimes Maleficent, but that’s a different and better sort of scared.”

Udo smiled subtly at that, his pale brows twitching. 

“I see. Shall I send Maleficent your way when I return the prince?”

“Oh, it’s alright.” Shrugging off-handedly, he lightly stroked Riordan’s hand by manner of farewell. “Well … only if she isn’t busy.”

He thought to thank the faerie again for his time, but something quite unusual happened that changed his train of thought entirely.

Udo frowned. Really, deeply frowned, his very pale blue eyes unfocusing for a moment. Diaval understood what had shocked and perhaps overwhelmed him, for he felt it, too: a sudden shift in the very air, their surroundings, the darkened sky. It occurred so suddenly that it took them both some time to figure out just what might have been happening, but soon came to the conclusion that what they were feeling mutually was a very intense gloominess. A coldness that crept in like a ghost with the very wind, which itself was changing direction and beginning to smell very unpleasant to their sensitive noses. 

Distracted from his anxious and agitated state, Diaval fought to remember when he had felt something like this before. Well, it was many times, in fact, but there was only one occurrence before when those feelings had felt to take a _physical_ presence. He realised he knew what the answer was, it was more a matter of catching up to it and acknowledging it for what it was in the unwelcome suddenness. 

He felt denial. Intensely so. Then, he felt numb.

It couldn’t be. Not again.

Udo stared at him. The white that adorned him had, at some point, been enveloped in a poisonous green colour. It glowed upon his person, filling his fearful eyes. It shone upon little Riordan’s skin and pale blonde hair. The grass, trees, and the streams that cut through them were bathed in this sordid, emerald light, and the entire land was smothered with that darkness, that cursed sorrow and rage that had been slowly creeping in for months. 

Diaval was frozen, but he managed to turn his head just enough to see what he feared.

Over the trees, in the north-western sky, a spire of green, foggy magic was piercing into the night. The light that radiated from it swallowed the stars and even the Moon itself. The scent they tasted upon the air was that of rotting seaweed, corpses lost at sea, the brine of a damned world. 

Despite what he was seeing, Diaval remained trapped in a state of numb shock. It had all come so suddenly that it couldn’t possibly be real. Hadn’t he been worrying about other things moments ago? Hadn’t he been looking forward to spending a peaceful evening with Maleficent before the inevitable visit to Breoslaigh? 

He snapped out of that, and quickly. Finding the wherewithal to shapeshift, he took to his raven-shape and flew madly to a greater height where he was granted a view of the great stretch of the Moors and beyond. The air was so much colder up there. It was darker without the magic of the forests. The darkness would prove to be a help, even if what he saw horrified him and chilled him to his very bones.

He saw in the very far distance a bubble of green on the horizon, one that was gently shifting in size and drifting slowly away like a will-o’-the-wisp. His remarkable raven sight, which could even see the achingly slow movements of celestial bodies, discerned that the Feth Fiadha was not moving towards them, but _away._

Away towards the north. _Wickpon._

Mera. Pioden.

And then a monstrous wall of green of unfathomable speed and size charged in from the black slate of the sea, passing the Moors’ western border. It was a wall of death. The ghost of a fallen god. The rancid green mist moved past the enormous scope of the Moors in a matter of seconds and soon formed into a great dome shape somewhere to the south-west. 

_Perceforest._

Innocent lives.

He waited a moment more to see if another wave of the mist manifested. The sea remained vacant after that. Diaval flapped his wings as hard as he could and swirled downwards, seeing that Udo was already halfway towards the castle with that precious charge in his arms. It didn’t matter what was going on in the court anymore. There was nothing Diaval could fly in on that was more important than this.

The Feth Fiadha had returned, and it was moving in to assault not one, but two human kingdoms. The white raven had flown.

They were too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daideó (DADJ-yoh) is the more informal/personal Irish term for grandfather that children would call their grandparent. Or in this case, grand-raven.
> 
> Similarly, Daidí (DAH-dee) is what children would call their dad, with Athair (AH-her) being the more formal term (like father). 
> 
> I can’t remember if I’ve written this in the notes yet, but the Old Language mentioned in the series is really Gaeilge (Irish Gaelic), or more accurately a gathering the old Brittonic languages including Welsh, Cornish, Old English, etc etc ... I believe it was noted by Sam or someone else related to the development of the first movie that Diaval’s Irish accent is symbolic of the ties the story has to Celtic folklore and mythology. 
> 
> The Celts once lived across the entirely of the British Isles, but the invasions of Romans and Anglo-Saxons drove them out away from the south-east of England. Many, many of them were killed, but some were able to defend their land, too, which is why some remnants of the Celtic culture persists. Across Britain to this day there are remnants of this ancient civilisation, many ancient stone rings and burial mounds, to which I nod to here in this series. It’s more implied than anything, but the ancient humans (like the ones that killed Mori’ka) were much closer to nature and magic than the likes of Ulsteadians (who are likely descended from invaders). They are perhaps the creators of the stone fairy rings and monuments, or at least put them to use. It was a world of magical swords and wizards back then, but now that sort of thing is mostly restricted to the Moors which may well be one of the few bastions of magic left in this fictional version of Britain, because most of that culture has been wiped out and buried.
> 
> Anyway, as a sort of homage to the lingering Irish language and to Diaval’s heritage as a creature of nature and magic, any children of his would refer to him in the tongue of the Old Language, save for Aurora who is yet mostly unfamiliar with such things. More than that, her use of the word father for him is something symbolic of _their_ shared, special bond, as that was how she came to know him.
> 
> Last but not least, in these difficult times, I hope that the words of Udo in his address of Diaval perhaps resonated with some of you reading out there. Perhaps there are some that relate to Diaval’s struggles personally, or perhaps Maleficent or Aurora or another character, no matter in what regard. Or perhaps there is something else you are struggling with. I hope that this story can take your mind off things for a little while. Try to see the beauty that exists within you as easily as you might be able to see it in other people. Believe me, there is something very wonderful about you.
> 
> Much love. See you at the next chapter.


	19. Éan Sonas

The world was shrouded.

Rivers of green light flowed moodily across the sky away from the source of their emergence. It was swirls of mysterious, eldritch fog, a dark aurora that suggested the presence of realms beyond that of mortals, cutting its way through what the earth knew and understood. It was a mirror image of the most fetid ocean with its waves and the presence of dangerous creatures beyond.

The white raven knew that ocean well. It was all it had known for some time. That and lingering thoughts, feelings, and sensations that had never found resolution or understanding. The longer it spent in the fog and gloom doing what it was told, the more it came to forget. There was no goodness in the world. It knew that. The ocean in the sky was home because it was there it had been left to rot, tangled up in the weeds and the claws of beings it could not quite comprehend.

The whisper within always knew what to do, however. Go to the horned woman with the white wings. Stay by her side. You belong to her, now. You always will.

But sometimes, when it ventured far enough, the white raven caught sight of the Moors. It saw a horned woman with black wings that was not truly unkind. It saw itself, its cursed reflection, enjoying the light of the day and the attention of dainty, winged creatures. A life that was so familiar, and yet one that seemed to cloud over the longer it tried to look.

And it wondered.

* * *

  
  
With that veil of green hanging low in the night sky, the Moors fell into chaos.

Fairies were flying or running about in a great panic, shrieking in terror. The tree warriors were assuming defensive stances around the woodland castle with their sharpened wooden spears clenched in their branches. The ruckus had poor Riordan crying in fear in his mother’s arms, and the queen appeared at a loss for what to do, her eyes set on the sky above.

“Father, turn into a bear,” she demanded loudly, and Diaval was quick to obey, transforming and lowering down so that Aurora could climb up onto his back and stand there at a greater height. They both watched the flurry of fairies, Diaval doing his utmost to restrain his own panic in regards to what he had seen, and Aurora maintaining a calm facade. She covered Riordan’s ears and shouted as loudly as she possibly could: “Everybody CALM DOWN!!”

Nearby, Maleficent slammed her staff on the ground and created a booming flash of golden magic that further caught the attention of the fairies. Everybody silenced. Though they were scared and tightly holding onto each other, they made their way back to the throne and waited.

“Thank you,” Aurora called to them all, her tone far gentler.

It tore at Diaval to see the fairies so frightened. It was understandable that they were, of course; only a few of them in the scheme of things had the benefit of being large and strong creatures. Most of them were small and past dealings with Ulstead had proved just how fragile they were physically, especially when faced with an enemy that knew how to abuse their trust and weakness to iron. And now they were faced with what must have looked like the end of all life as they knew it.

There were some, however, far more willing to take on the emerging threats. Diaval saw a hare fairy wielding a twig like a sword in its paws, practicing its swings. Pinto stomped angrily, her many sharp quills standing up on end. Even the pixies looked more than ready to defend their homeland, Knotgrass rolling up her sleeves of petals and Lickspittle rubbing his hands in an odd little display of glee before pulling a myriad of dangerous little instruments from his pockets.

The fairies were the very avatars of life. How well could they truly fare in a battle against the dead?

Diaval dwelt on this with much concern and even guilt. What if the Feth Fiadha was a response to him finding the torch? What if Mori’ka had somehow learnt information he shouldn’t have? Wickpon had only just recovered from the near destruction of their people and kingdom - would they be able to face yet another attack on their home? Would Queen Mera and Prince Pioden survive?

When Aurora slid from his back, he turned back into his man-shape and watched her with silent desperation. If anything happened to the Moors, to Mera and Pio, what was he supposed to do? He had to do  _ something  _ to stop that from happening. He had teeth, claws, a sword, he could …

But what if the Moon Witch was there? Could he do anything then?

That thought really allowed what was happening to sink in. The Feth Fiadha was back. The dead were charging upon two kingdoms as he stood there and uselessly panicked. Wynne was likely among them solely for the purpose of finding him and inflicting her obsession, her need to exact revenge and hurt. The thought made him immediately light-headed and unfocused.

But if he didn’t do anything, if he didn’t  _ go _ … what if somebody he cared deeply about was lost? He couldn’t keep to himself despite the likelihood of Wynne sniffing him out among the living, not when his role in the disaster unfolding was so involved.

The fae clan leaders gathered before the throne, ready to act upon whatever instruction would come. Maleficent moved to stand with them, her head held high and a fierce gleam of defiance to be beheld in her eyes. As Aurora paced, Phillip quickly took Riordan from her to try and comfort the poor boy by bouncing him lightly up and down, but his gaze was only ever focused on Aurora or the green mist churning like sea waves high over their heads.

“We must help them,” the queen decided firmly, turning to face them all. “Father, did you get a good look at the size of the invasions?”

Momentarily surprised to be called upon, Diaval did his best to shed his distraction and fear. Pulling himself away from his doubts back into focus, he thought quickly.

“It was hard to tell in the mist, and it was so far away. Both Wickpon and Perceforest are smaller than Ulstead, Perceforest bein’ nearly half the size. It would make sense for Tech Duinn to split its forces, er … if they rely on numbers at all, anyway.”

“Then we can split ours,” Aurora said, albeit unsurely. “Both kingdoms are in need of aid whether they are allies or not. Neither deserve to face the dead alone! Phillip, would your father amass what he can of the Ulsteadian army and send them to Perceforest?”

“Of course he would,” Phillip responded, admirably calm.

“Shrike, will the jungle fae present join Ulstead?”

Shrike stepped forwards and firmly beat her fist against her chest, a passion for battle and justice alighting in her strong features. 

“We shall fight alongside our friends and dispose of  _ whatever _ threats the demon sends our way. The humans will learn this night that the dark fae are to be respected, not feared. We will fly to the king while the prince rides. Fight well, brothers and sisters!”

Aurora nodded, and Shrike spread her impressive, colourful wings to take fearlessly off into the cursed sky. Her people emerged from the crowds of fairies about the woodland castle and followed her into the west without question. 

Phillip moved then, jogging off in the direction of the waiting carriage in the woods, then thought better of it and headed back to Aurora with a look of great concern.

“I am confident that Shrike and Percival will lead an impressive charge upon Perceforest, but I am concerned that the Moors lacks an experienced swordsman. Allow Ulstead to fight for the Moors as well, Aurora. I will go to Wickpon with your people.”

Diaval felt a remarkable fondness for the prince upon hearing that, and even Maleficent, who often regarded Phillip with  _ some _ of the same disdain she held for most humans, seemed impressed by his offer. 

“Alright, Phillip,” Aurora said with a quick and nervous sort of smile. “The Moors is likely the safest place for Riordan if Mori’ka’s focus is on human kingdoms. Knotgrass! Thistlewit!” She waved the two pixies over and gently lifted Riordan out of Phillip’s arms to plant a loving kiss upon his head. The boy had calmed a little, burying his head in his mother’s neck. “Will you take care of the prince while we are gone?  _ Please _ make sure he sleeps and eats proper food in the morning.”

Without time for squabbling, the two pixies came forwards and very carefully took hold of their young charge. Aurora was slow to release the prince, hugging him to her and pressing a fretful kiss to his flushed forehead, but she reluctantly let go and watched as her son was carefully carried down to the ground.

“Of course, Your Majesty!!” Knotgrass proclaimed a little too loudly, holding Riordan away from her a bit as if she feared he might bite. “Oh, but, my dear! You’re not really thinking about going, are you?!”

“I had the very same concern,” Maleficent interjected in cool, measured fashion. “You do remember what happened last time, don’t you? You were cornered by the Moon Witch. Do you  _ really _ expect me to let you go?”

A silence fell, then. Perhaps it was that the weight of it all was truly settling in, or perhaps everyone was waiting to see if an untimely argument would unfold. Diaval regarded his family with worry, anxiously gnawing on his lower lip and moving his hands to his hips, preparing himself to step in and provide a measure of reason in what could become a heated debate about Aurora’s presence among the help they would send. He certainly had his own concerns about that, of course, as a father, but he also knew that such a decision was not his own to make.

He and Aurora shared a brief look in which he attempted to convey that understanding and concern. He moved closer to her and took her hand, knowing full well how painful it was for her to leave Riordan behind with the pixies and lending his silent support.

“And you?” Maleficent continued, her attention turned upon him. “Diaval? Should we really send the one Queen of the Moors and her one Lord Chancellor into the fray for the sake of a human kingdom? Do you  _ really _ think that is a good idea?”

“It’s about more than human kingdoms, Maleficent,” Diaval offered gently. “It’s about all of us. Life against death. Us against  _ him _ . You know what he wants, to fracture the stability and unions of all our people. We can’t let him get that far. That he’s desperate enough to resort to this means that we’re winnin’.”

“You didn’t answer my question. As Guardian of the Moors, it is also my duty to protect its royal family. Lend aid to Wickpon if you must but don’t you dare endanger yourselves over this. The vengeful undead cannot be reasoned with. It is  _ not _ that long ago we experienced it for ourselves.”

The faerie spoke calmly, but anyone could hear the passion behind her words if they knew her well enough. Her eyes were as green as the emerald mist drifting in to occupy the world. Where other men might have fallen to their knees in fear or removed themselves from her sights, Diaval was not made afraid by it. He never had been. He knew that her passionate anger came from a place of absolute fear of losing those she loved. No matter how much any of them learnt and moved on, that fear was very real and always came back to haunt them. Always.

Diaval gingerly approached. Maleficent stared fiercely at him, the truth of her hurt swimming in her eyes.

“I owe it to them to help. Mera showed me a moment of kindness when I thought I’d lost everythin’. Wickpon has welcomed us all without question. They think of us as friends, not as threats, despite everythin’ Wynne did to ‘em. It’s gonna be alright, Maleficent. They took us by surprise last time, but they’re disorganised. With a bit o’ thought, we can overpower them ‘cause we’re stronger than they are.”

“Have you thought that it could be a trap? What if he is luring us all there and planning to have you transform against your will?”

The suggestion hurt somewhat, but it was a reasonable one. Diaval took a moment to think it over, taking a breath to stay his panic among the knowledge of what was unfolding in Wickpon as they spoke.

“I need to have faith in myself that I won’t let it happen,” he said, the rasp of his voice turning even more coarse with poorly restrained emotion. “If I believe that it will, then I’ve lost. That’s when he’ll have me where he wants me: hopeless and easily manipulated. I won’t be his slave. I won’t let him win and inflict the misery he brings upon the entire world. A battle for Wickpon is a battle for the Moors, too.”

“We have fought enough battles!” Maleficent argued. “The Dark Fae have seen enough! I have seen enough.  _ You  _ have seen enough. And the very last thing we should be doing is tossing our own daughter into an army of Donn’s devils and banshees!”

“Maleficent, we’ve been through this!”

“Yes, and you say that things are going to be alright every time, but they are not, Diaval. You can’t possibly know that everything is going to be  _ alright _ . You could well just be sending us exactly where Mori’ka wants us, even if you believe your words come from a place of good intention.”

The Moors was silent as they observed the argument begin to unfold. Even Aurora, who usually would have been arguing her own case, seemed struck with disbelief. 

Diaval was momentarily at a loss for words. Frustrated, he ran his hands back through his hair and turned away just as he felt his temper begin to rise. The anger heated his cheeks and formed all sorts of arguments in his head that he was too reasonable to speak aloud. Perhaps he might have done it if there was time, but the sky was tainted with the essence of the darkest realm of the Otherworld and the dead were laying siege to two kingdoms at that very moment.

“That’s enough,” Aurora said, her tone firm but gentle all at once. “I will not be the sort of queen that sits in an ivory tower while soldiers fight on her behalf. I will join them. Mother, I will stay with the desert fae. I want them to approach the city from the ground. Father can join Udo in leading a charge from the sky with the forest and tundra fae. I  _ know  _ that it will be alright. I don’t think that Mori’ka wants us in Wickpon. I think he wants us in the Moors. He wants us here, arguing and fighting with each other instead of  _ him _ . We all have the right to choose where we stand in this battle against that horrid demon! This call to arms is not a demand, but a request.”

Diaval did not have to look at Maleficent to know that she was likely as still as a statue, staring at the queen unblinkingly as her rage and fear swirled silently within. He fully understood her reluctance. It came from a place as a mother, not just an advisor. There was nothing that would stand in the way of Maleficent’s love for her daughter. Not queendom, not a war, not the undead. He understood that it was even more difficult, then, to recognise that Aurora was a grown woman, and that as a queen, she would put herself at risk for her people.

He understood how much it hurt to let it happen when they were the ones supposed to protect her.

Doubt surged. The thought of Aurora getting hurt or worse encouraged yet more panic, but for the sake of the Moors, he had to think clearly. It was his role to be an advisor to all, a mediator as much as a leader. Roles given to him by Aurora herself. And so, despite his personal thoughts on the matter at hand, he stood between Maleficent and Aurora as a conciliator as he often did.

“Aurora, we have little time,” he said, sounding far calmer than he truly felt. “We should have those willing to fight begin to prepare themselves while we decide on where we stand.”

Aurora nodded. There was a brief slip in her features, one that betrayed just how nervous she truly was, but she hardened in an instant and turned to Udo and Borra.

“It is time to summon our people from across the Moors and beyond. We must form the Wild Hunt once more,” she said loudly and clearly, holding her head high. “Be on guard, all of you! It isn’t just a Moon Witch that we face, now. Lickspittle!”

At once, the pixie stumbled over to the throne and knelt before it, his eyes alight with a disconcerting enthusiasm.

“Your Majesty!”

“It seems your work on the ghostberries that were brought back from Breoslaigh will finally come to use. Have it brought to the court at once.”

“Yes. Yes!” Lickspittle exclaimed, all but jumping back to his feet with a toothy grin. “At once! At once!”

When he quickly ran off towards the castle, Aurora then turned to the three púca perched on the crumbling walls about the court. The shapeshifters had been watching everything unfold with an unnerving silence, burying nearly the entire court in their great shadows. They weren’t squabbling, at least, successfully distracted (or entertained) by the chaos and the events at hand.

Diaval instinctively moved closer to Aurora when their golden, hunter’s eyes moved to settle on her.

“Fionnlagh, Impundulu, Nagual, is there a way that we can travel quickly to Wickpon and escort the fairies that can’t fly? Will you lend us your wings?”

The three of them looked at each other. And then they started squawking with laughter. An untimely sort of reaction that belittled the severity of the matter, indeed, and Diaval immediately tensed and watched them with rising anger. With a scowl, he approached them and stared them out until they appeared vaguely uncomfortable, attempting to silently remind them of their little brawl and the fact that  _ he  _ had won.

“Answer the queen!” He demanded coarsely. 

Any remnants of their laughter settled at once. They all narrowed their eyes at him, very much unimpressed, but he didn’t care. They  _ would  _ help, whether indirectly or not, or he vowed to make their lives difficult the entire time they were in the Moors. Such was the way of the raven and this was  _ his _ home and family. If they didn’t understand that yet, they would.

“Yes, there is a way,” Fionnlagh answered with unfamiliar coldness, eyeing Diaval a moment longer before his head spinned towards Aurora. “Hoo, yes, m’dear, where is the nearest fairy ring?”

“Um …” Aurora looked vaguely about, thoughtful. “The nearest is in the Forest of Dreams only minutes away. A circle of mushrooms and stones.”

“Ah, hm … perhaps a bit small, but for time’s sake, it’ll have to do. This happens to be my specialty! We laugh ‘cause we can hardly believe the art of travel has been lost to you all so quickly! What an absolute hoot! Master Angry Raven, is there a fairy ring near Wickpon?”

“Yes,” Diaval replied somewhat stiffly. “There’s an enormous one of giant statues. It’s where the frost fairies were hiding when Wynne was there. There’s some kinda monument to Mori’ka inside.”

Fionnlagh ruffled his feathers. “Is that so? A fairy ring is a fairy ring, I suppose. Not only are they gateways to the Otherworld, they can also temporarily have their purpose diverted to that of travel. That was how the ancient wizards of the Moors sent through all those troops from Eastwend to defeat Mori’ka! Maleficent, this is the perfect time for me to show you how to do this!”

“Bah! Boring magic. We should just fly there!” Impundulu argued. “My wings bring mighty storms!”

“Squark to that! We can’t fight! Show-off!” Nagual argued brashly, spreading his colourful wings in an avian sort of shrug. “Showing them how to use the rings again is enough!”

“You’re just angry that the most you can do is crack open nuts, you crestless mango-head!”

“Enough!” Aurora shouted before things could devolve into another and far more pointless argument. “Everybody that wants to join us in Wickpon, get ready! Gather by the fairy ring and await my presence!”

The authority to be heard in the queen’s voice was truly startling. She was still Aurora, of course she was, kind and well-meaning and jovial, but there was something there now that was very new. A true confidence in the matter of ruling, a no-nonsense edge that allowed for her courage and presence to be beheld by all. A tone to her voice that was reminiscent of Maleficent herself.

Diaval watched her move off to begin shouting orders out over the rabble of the fairies, a dull ache in his chest. He was so intensely proud of her. He had helped raise a true queen, one that was far braver than he could ever hope to be. He felt guilt, too, that she was having to put herself in danger to fight a battle that should not have been hers. He  _ knew  _ he was by no means responsible for the things Mori’ka had done, and yet he couldn’t help but feel to an agonising degree that he should be going to endure the rest of this adventure alone.

That feeling became even worse when he looked at Maleficent and found her standing alone, her hands on her belly and her eyes glistening with rage and probably terror, too. She was not immune to that. She knew what facing the dead meant as much as he did. There were enormous risks, not only in the danger of fighting Tech Duinn, but in the unseen presence of Mori’ka, too. 

Diaval was a raven. He wasn’t a faerie or a spirit or even really a man. The odds of him being able to fend off the will of a demon seemed … slim. He knew it, and yet he could not stand by and wait. He could not see his daughter fight against the forces that had claimed him when he was the one supposed to be fighting for  _ her _ . 

The low, deafening sound of a horn sounded across the entire Moors twice. It would summon the Wild Hunt to them soon enough. 

Gulping, he approached Maleficent out a desire to console her, but when she looked at him, her stare was blank and almost confused, as if she didn’t recognise him at all. Worried by that, he took her hand and guided her towards the castle and inside where it was far quieter and one could hear themselves think. There was a small room within decked from floor to ceiling in moss. It was what served as an armoury, technically, but the Moors’ armaments were composed only of Aurora and Diaval’s swords, a golden breastplate, and the Cumbrian Torch.

“I feel unwell,” Maleficent murmured, closing her eyes.

At once, Diaval moved in to her side and gently held her, rubbing a hand up and down her velvet-clad arm.

“She’ll be fine with Borra and his people. That faerie, well … he’s capable, isn’t he? He knows how to fight. It’d take an entire army to stop him.”

“I can’t heal in the Feth Fiadha, Diaval.” There was a pause - and then Maleficent’s walls dismantled in the privacy of that small, dark chamber. The tears streamed. She gasped, unable to catch her breath as her entire body was seized with turmoil. “I can’t, I … I am supposed to protect our people, but I can’t. Not against the dead. What if something happens to our children?”

It was devastating to hear, not only for his mate’s upset but the implication that she was actually planning on going with them. He could argue and fight it, but ultimately, such a decision was not truly his to make, and he would respect her choice no matter what.

“Are you sure you want to come?” He asked of her, already knowing full well what the answer would be. If Aurora was going, then her mother would undoubtedly be leading the way forwards and protecting the Moorfolk, just like always. 

“Of course I’m coming. I’ll form an encampment at the very edge of the Feth Fiadha, just as we did before.”

“Then … look-“ Diaval moved to face her, sliding his hands up to her shoulders. A deep, age-old affection rising to the fore, he smiled gently and pulled his loose sleeve over his fingers so that he might dab away the wet streaks on Maleficent’s cheeks. “Who says you can’t heal in the Feth Fiadha, Maleficent?”

“It did not  _ work _ before.”

“Right, but we’ve learnt a lot about your power since then. Remember who you are. You’re a magnificent creature, one that shines so bright that even the gods fear you. They’re usin’ the Phoenix’s separation from the Otherworld to control you, but your power is over both life and death, remember? Who says your healing magic can’t permeate the veil of death? The gods do, but the gods don’t make the rules, they just enforce what  _ they _ want. We’ll not bend to the whims of gods. We’re the Moors. We  _ are _ the magic that’s left in the world, and you’re there at the very apex.”

Maleficent very quickly wiped away what was left of her tears, turning her gaze to the ceiling a moment to allow her eyes to dry. She took a deep breath and relaxed herself as best she could. Diaval rubbed her arms all the while to encourage her.

“I love you,” he murmured, leaning in to give her a quick peck on the cheek - and then again, and again, earning himself the tiniest smile in response when Maleficent tried to push him away.

“Enough. I suppose you’re right.” She sighed again, and then moved to pick up the golden breastplate from the ground. It was an elaborate thing, clearly of human make, shining as gold as life magic. “Ulstead made this. Will you help me?”

At once, Diaval took the armour and separated it into its two halves. It proved somewhat fiddly; the piece was of course designed to encompass Maleficent’s wings, but was thankfully adjustable in that it sat safely over her chest and slightly protruding belly. Once the breastplate was firmly on, Maleficent twirled her fingers and adorned herself in a matching crown of black and gold silk, and a matching suit of dark leather and glittering scales.

Very much enamoured, Diaval gaped at her appreciatively.

“Wow. You’re like … you look like a war goddess or somethin’.”

“I rather like it,” the faerie admitted, glancing over herself. “An attire for war, certainly, but I will be sure to keep myself contained at the encampment and help our assault from there. Your words speak truth, darling, but I do not know how to heal within the veil of death yet, and so I must remain where I can heal the wounded until I learn. It will be safer for the little ones.”

Diaval nodded in agreement. Gods help any of the dead that dared venture too close.

He took up his sword and then the torch, too, debating.

“Should I bring this?”

They looked at each other, silently coming to terms with the possibility that the night would not end in Wickpon.

“I suppose. We’ll see what Aurora wants to do. Now, hold still.” 

Maleficent elegantly twirled her fingers again and sent a glittering stream of magic towards Diaval. He felt his body suddenly become that much heavier as he was again adorned in the silver armour that manifested out of nowhere on top of his clothes. It was sparkling clean with no suggestion of the conflict that had arisen last time he’d worn it. The faerie waved her hand again, and the world fell dark when his head was suddenly encased in a heavy helmet.

He quickly yanked it off out of sheer surprise. It was something more aesthetically pleasing than the steel domes humans tended to wear. His was something to honour his raven identity, shining feathers and beautiful swirling patterns magically engraved into the metal, and the visor formed into a curved beak. He stared at it with a frown, turning it about in silver claws. It was a lovely, glittering thing that would be a shame to ruin.

There were many moments in his life that he’d wondered just how he’d arrived at that point. This was one of them. Him, a  _ raven _ , about to fly off into a fight against the dead themselves. Whatever it might have entailed, wherever it might lead, there was nothing he would change about that first time he’d turned into a man simply for the good things it had led to. They were the reasons why he donned armour and wielded a sword despite it going against his nature.

Maleficent moved in and took the helm from him to carefully place it back on his head again. He blinked at her when she lifted the visor and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Bit on the nose, isn’t it?” He commented weakly.

“Ungrateful bird. It will save your nose. All the more, let the world not forget your heritage, Diaval.” Taking his sword, she brought the leather belt about his waist and buckled it for him, and then skirted a hand appreciatively down the dark tartan of the fly plaid that draped behind his shoulder. She pursed her lips and turned to retrieve Aurora’s sword. “The torch should fit into the straps at your back.”

With the torch safely contained behind him, Diaval took Maleficent’s hand. There was a pause, wonderfully quiet, a moment that was theirs in the reality that they knew before the world became a significantly more terrifying place.

What Diaval really wanted to do was sit down and probably cry a bit, if he was being honest with himself. Maleficent looked as though she was suffering a similar thought, albeit far more elegantly. The colour of her eyes was shifting, swirling with green and gold, as they looked at each other.

“Forgive me if my words were cruel before. I do not believe for a moment that Mori’ka can truly make a puppet of you,” she offered, glancing away in light of the apology. “It was fear that compelled my argument.”

“I know, Maleficent. I’m as scared as you are, believe me.”

“Precisely. That you feel fear about what is to come means that you are wholly Diaval. Hold on to everything that makes you the man that we all love dearly.”

“Yes. Always.” Despite his steadily rising panic, he drew his sword and tried to twirl it a few times if only to show off in front of his mate. “Diaval, Lord Chancellor and knight of the Moors!” Quite promptly, the sword flew clumsily out from between his fingers and clattered on the ground. Diaval sighed sadly. “Almost. Éan Sonas is a badly behaved sword. That wasn’t me.”

“Obviously,” Maleficent responded with a touch of amusement, heading towards the doorway as Diaval retrieved his weapon. “However, a sword is only an extra limb of its master. You stay true to its name no matter what you may think.”

“I’m not really sure if  _ I’m  _ the bird of good fortune, y’know. If I am, I haven’t done a very good job of it.” He spoke in jest, but he was met with a look of such disapproval that he gulped as he followed the faerie towards the clamour of outside. “Right. Listenin’. I’m listenin’. The sword is an extension of me.”

“Goodness. Can it be that the stones are falling out of your ears?”

“Maybe. I hope they’re not precious ones.”

The pair reached the old, crumbling arch that led out into the court, and there they stopped a moment, watching the bleak and poisoned skies overhead as dark clouds of fairies and other creatures made their approach. It near enough looked as though the entirety of the Moors was answering the call to form the Wild Hunt. There were even the dark, mysterious creatures that lived in the Forest of Dreams, the black shucks and the ghouls. There were spirits gathering, too: white harts, jackalopes, spirits of the elements, and there were beasts of the wilds arriving in herds.

Diaval had only seen such a congregation once, and that was when Aurora was crowned their queen.

Though the world was tarnished with death, it was also graced by the light of life. The court was filled with vast arrays of colour and voices and even laughter as the Hunt readied itself to charge into the fray. Diaval was truly speechless. The sight of it brought tears to his eyes.

“Look at this,” Maleficent murmured quietly, reaching for his hand. “Hope, Diaval. Look at how many are willing to fight for … for our friends.” She looked at him, then, her gaze renewed with resolve. “Perhaps there are some humans who do not deserve our help, but there are others that do. Humans like Aurora, Phillip, and John. Mera and that young prince of hers. They have fought for our kind when we needed it, and they would help us still.”

“I think you’re right, Maleficent.” He gazed intently at her, squeezing gently at her hand. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. Asking  _ you  _ to be careful is like asking a child not to jump into a puddle, but I will ask it of you regardless. No, I  _ demand _ it of you. Our family must return home unscathed and in one piece.”

“Raven’s promise.” With a shaky smile, Diaval brought her hand to his lips and kissed it - and then he patted at the armour covering her belly. “Daidí’s promise to his little ones that everythin’ is gonna be just fine.”

Together, they found Aurora and Phillip carrying small crates down the hill towards the forest. Lickspittle followed them with his own tower of crates, so eager that he didn’t notice the little pouches flying out of the topmost one. Diaval picked one of the burlap pouches up and opened it curiously to find a black powder within that smelt suspiciously like  _ blood,  _ and he realised this must have been the result of the pixie’s work on the ghostberries.

They were like Ingrith’s tomb-bloom powder bombs, only they were designed to counteract the wicked, demonic creatures of the world.

Diaval pulled a face and quickly closed the pouch to lob it into Lickspittle’s hands when he passed again. He wasn’t really sure how he felt about that horrible research being used again, but at least this time it would be used against an actual evil and not innocent fairies. 

Maleficent weaved her magic through the air and sent it towards Aurora and Phillip as they worked. The queen found herself donned in a resplendent golden armour that bore her crowned rose crest on the breastplate. The light, pale blue cape was adorned with enchanted flowers and doubled up as a perch for the butterflies that took to Aurora’s presence. Phillip’s armour was golden, too, though something clearly more inspired by Percival and the Ulsteadian guards.

Once their preparation was complete, the family gathered by the fairy ring of mushrooms that awaited only a small distance away in the woods. It was small, indeed, but would see the largest of the fairies through. The Hunt surrounded them in their respective groups or herds, their numbers stretching on so far into the trees that the end of the army could not be seen, even with the beautiful glowing of the fairies lighting the way.

Knotgrass and Thistlewit fluttered close by, concern in their small faces. Riordan had since calmed somewhat in their arms, wrapped in a warm, comforting shawl of flower petals and dandelion fluff. Poor Aurora and Phillip watched him with sad longing as they waited for the willing numbers to amass.

The Dark Fae leaders joined them at the ring, followed by their pucá forefathers.

“We make straight for the city,” Aurora announced when silence fell. “Borra, Phillip and I will follow your people in the ground assault. Mother will form and hold an encampment at clear ground at the outskirts of the mist. Brightleaf, have half of the tree warriors help defend the encampment. The others can join us on the ground. To all the fairies that can fly, follow Udo and take to the city by air. Father, take a group of the tundra fae and divert to the castle to empty it and get the denizens out to safety. Everyone, make your main goal be to evacuate the city to the encampment! Use your energy to defeat the dead only when necessary!”

She nodded towards Fionnlagh. The great snowy owl waddled forwards into the fairy ring and patted the ground testingly with his feet.

“Not the best, not the worst! Maleficent, come forth into the ring!” The spirit called grandly, spreading his gleaming white wings wide. When the faerie entered the circle, he continued in that very important sounding and booming voice, “The time has come! Take the memory of Wickpon’s great fairy ring from Diaval and hold its image fast in your mind.”

Diaval and Maleficent’s eyes met. He thought of that ancient, forgotten place hidden deep in Wickpon’s cold woods. He thought of its stone guardians that had remained steadfast there protecting what was left of the kingdom’s magic for so long. He thought of the pyramid of stone, the hot source of the river pouring out of a frost-coated raven’s maw. The very space in which the Phoenix and Mori’ka had accepted their love and ventured into its mystery together.

Maleficent closed her eyes, and the vision fell back into time.

“Now, connect with the ring, Maleficent, just as you learnt to connect with the trees and the beasts. Join with its power and direct its energy towards your destination! Whoosh! You’ll have yourself a nice gateway straight to the north! The best realm of all! Hoo, my, yes!”

With her staff held in both hands and her head held high, Maleficent stood there in the centre of the fairy ring, her golden magic beginning to blossom at her feet. As she concentrated, that magic began to spread outwards to encompass the entire circle until she stood within a pool of light. Fionnlagh was quick to vacate the space, retreating up into the branches of a great tree nearby with his brothers.

Her resolve was remarkable. Diaval didn’t understand how such magic worked, but he imagined it took enormous resolve to connect oneself to the chaos of nature, let alone something that could serve as a gate into realms beyond their own. If anyone could do it, it was  _ her. _ A spirit and a faerie rolled into one entity, but mostly for the fact it was Maleficent who was undoubtedly the most remarkable creature alive with or without her power.

And then she disappeared as a beam of golden light shot upwards from the earth into the heavens.

The beam faded, but it left glittering trails of magic in its wake. It was as though the very stars themselves had been pulled down to occupy the space between the fairy ring and the sky. Tiny, flashing specks of light floated about each other, indicating that there was a new kind of magic at play, now. Something was changed.

More importantly, Maleficent was gone.

Diaval’s mind really stopped functioning the moment he realised that. Even he did not care for the sparkling beauty of the magic she had left behind. He didn’t even consider what it meant. Without question did he step into the ring and follow her, just like always.

He would know the warm caress of her magic anywhere.

That warmth lingered in his bones, even when the world suddenly became that much colder. Diaval opened his eyes and saw that the Moors and its people were gone. In their place stood many trees, a few confused frost fairies, and to his utter relief, Maleficent. 

He was back, but Wickpon was unfamiliar in that it was nearly entirely shrouded in that green, foul-smelling mist. He could just about make out the ancient monument to Mori’ka there near the stream. Atop the pyramid, a stone raven with its wings spread hung over the pool of steaming water below it, its blank eyes staring coldly down towards the emerging numbers of the Moors below.

Diaval turned away from it and faced where he knew the black spires of the castle were hidden away in the encroaching mist of Tech Duinn.

When Aurora found her way through and appeared nearby as if she had been stood there all long, he quickly caught her when she stumbled. With a quick thought, he drew his sword and knelt down in front of her, turning the blade so that the sharp tip of it pointed up towards the streams of unwelcome, dark magic in the sky.

“Will you bless the blade, Aurora?”

Still appearing a bit confused following her sudden emergence in an unknown kingdom, Aurora took a moment to focus on him.

“What? I … bless it? How do I do that?”

“I’m not sure. Remember what Fionnlagh said about pure-hearted people bein’ able to bless things with some kind of good magic? It doesn’t take a priest to do that. You have the most good in a human I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, um …” Caught off-guard, Aurora tentatively reached forwards and carefully closed her hands around the blade of the raven-headed sword. “Er … I bless this blade with the power of um, good. How is that?”

Raising an eyebrow, Diaval held a finger near the blade and tried to detect a hint of heat upon his skin. It was only then he realised just how much his hands were shaking.

“Try again, diamond.”

With that, Aurora closed her eyes and concentrated.

“May this blade be a force against the wicked dead and the monsters of beyond. May all the love, goodness, and strength of its master flow through and bring peace to those bound to serve Tech Duinn and all demonkind. In the name of the Moors and in the name of what is right, may Éan Sonas help her master bring light to the dark places of the world.”

The rising heat Diaval could feel radiating towards his hands and face was nearly immediately palpable. It wasn’t exactly a comfortable feeling and in fact served as a very unpleasant reminder of what the likes of so-called  _ holy _ instruments could do to the likes of him, but there was some comfort to be found in the extra defence that it provided.

He rose to his feet and moved in to embrace the young queen a moment, then straightened the crown of golden leaves upon her head.

“Look after each other,” he muttered, and then headed towards Udo and the tundra fae, though not before sparing a rather disoriented Phillip a quick hug, too. 

He’d had nightmares of disasters like this unfolding once more. All that separated him now from all his worst fears was a simple mist that housed not only terrors from beyond, but terrors of the past. For all of them.

It was time to face it head on.


	20. The Son of the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry, I promised people Mera and Pioden in this chapter but I got carried away and didn’t want a gigantic chapter again! So, next chapter they will show up, I double promise this time!!

The woods were eerily quiet.

Sat astride the back of a brown bear, Aurora led the grounded forces through the dark forest. A blanket of snow touched with the toxic green of the mist sat pristine upon the ground, and the old, wizened trees wore extravagant coats of frost. From their black, gnarled branches, the mysterious frost fairies peeped at the approaching mass of strangers, and they gradually began to filter in to join them with their tiny ice spears and bark shields.

One of them, presumably their queen given the crown and sceptre, fluttered alongside Aurora and Phillip with steely determination on her little pointed face. It wasn’t the first battle for Wickpon that she had seen. Though her people had suffered enormously thanks to Wynne’s cruelty, she was still willing to fight for their human neighbours.

Aurora felt a strange sensation alongside the unquestionable fear. She no longer really felt like Aurora at all. She felt like a different person. Aurora from five years ago would not have been able to lead the Moors in a battle against the realm of the dead, and she was oddly uncertain as to whether this was all actually real. She endured several moments of this strange feeling, wondering when she was going to wake up and join her family for breakfast at the magical woodland castle she loved and knew so well.

She did not know Wickpon at all, having only heard of it in her father’s stories. There simply hadn’t been the time to visit. However, she knew Queen Mera and respected her enormously, not only for what she had done for her father but for all her queenly experience. Prince Pioden, too, though they had never met, had her fondness through her father’s enthusiastic recounts of the young prince.

It was strange being the one being needed. She was not the one being helped or rescued. It was time for her to repay the favour now that she was capable - because she  _ was _ capable now, regardless of what the doubt in her mind sought to make her believe. Having known her mother and father, she knew what doubt could do to a person. How it could break such wonderful, powerful people down and make them believe things that weren’t true. She couldn’t let it happen to her. She couldn’t let it happen to  _ them _ again.

This was how she could protect them, not by hiding them away from the world but by defeating the things that sought to hurt them.

Beside her, Phillip rode on the back of a black shuck, an enormous, wolf-like black dog with fierce red eyes. If he was at all nervous, he didn’t show it. He kept his hand tight around the pommel of his sword and held onto the scruff of the black shuck with the other, his usually gentle eyes hardened with caution. To the other side of her, Borra walked stealthily with his tawny wings stretched out behind him, ready to use the sharp talons on them as weapons. His yellow eyes were wide and focused, his fangs bared. If anybody could lead their group into victory, it was him.

The rest of the desert fae followed behind with the wingless forces. They were equipped with pouches of Lickspittle’s work - affectionately referred to as  _ holyplosions _ by the pixie - of which there weren’t many, but Lickspittle insisted that the range would be enough to keep the dead at bay if used wisely. Aurora still didn’t understand how they worked, particularly, only that they were made from the ghostberries Percival brought back from Breoslaigh. According to Diaval, soldiers there had been gathering the strange fruit, though whether it was to protect themselves from the undead that claimed the throne or whether it was Mori’ka protecting himself from the Feth Fiadha was unclear to her. 

The pixie responsible marched with them, too - or more accurately, he was flying with mechanical wings that he had built himself and wore strapped around his back. He delighted in the success of his device, zooming about the fairies with what looked like a very sharp looking poker and a bistoury. Aurora thought him best left to his own devices, for the most part.

The trees began to shrink and thin. Aurora and Phillip rode out of the woods at long last. She heard what she thought could be a river with large chunks of ice crashing together in its depths, but she could barely see more than several feet in front of her face as the mist became heavier and heavier. 

And then something pale emerged in the darkness.

She did not scream. She unsheathed her sword and immediately held it out towards the …  _ whatever  _ it was, her heart pounding so wildly in her chest that it sounded like thunder in her ears. Phillip drew his sword and leapt down from his steed at once, throwing himself in front of Aurora to protect her from the creature that had emerged.

It quickly turned out to be a needless endeavour. Encouraged by the lack of reaction from the great bear that carried her, they moved closer. The pale thing was not moving. At first, it simply looked to be a statue, that of a horse rearing up on its hind feet in apparent terror that was caught in time. There were other statues nearby, too. Five wolves in various stances, all of them with their teeth bared.

The creatures glistened in the light of the nearby fairies, and Aurora came to realise that they were not statues at all, but real animals frozen in ice. 

They were still there after all that time, alone at that river’s edge. It was truly chilling to witness something that she had only ever heard about in a horrible, heartbreaking fairytale. Five wolves cursed to servitude. Five men that had suffered in the claws of the Moon Witch and had their humanity taken away from them as punishment. Her own father had come dangerously close to being permanently turned into one of those poor beasts.

The ice statues hung there in the green mist like ghosts, but they were not the sort of dead that would hurt them.

“That’s Wynne’s doing,” Borra muttered angrily, touching the flank of the horse. With a guttural growl, he abruptly looked away from the creatures and towards the east. “I can hear Wickpon from here. We’re close. We should get into formation. Queen Aurora, you should ride behind my people and ahead of the Moorfolk. You might wield a very pointy weapon, but the desert fae have keener sight and hearing and are hardened by battle. You and yours can face the dead that filter through.”

Aurora was wise enough now not to be insulted by any sort of insinuation that might have been read in the faerie’s words. There was no time for that. After all, Borra was right; battle wasn’t anything new for his kind. In many ways, they were built for it as the most ferocious and powerful of the fairies. They were the defenders of the Moors and other places of magic across the lands, and Aurora was not about to tread on their toes by insisting that  _ she  _ be the one to go first.

She nodded. At her side, Phillip awkwardly clambered back up onto his impatient shuck steed.

“Alright. Fairies, we’re close to Wickpon! Remain behind the prince and I while the desert fae lead the way ahead!”

Leaving those pale, icy memorials to death behind, the fairy cavalcade continued on in this new formation. Some of the desert fae dedicated themselves to using their wings to beat away the heavy mist. It gave the group far better vision, but only for a few short seconds before the mist rolled in again to keep its dark secrets concealed.

“Aurora,” Phillip spoke quietly and calmly. She could hear well the nerves in his voice, however, and envied his ability to conceal it. “This is going to be nearly impossible to fight in. We may as well be going in blindfolded. We can’t lose sight of each other when we’re in there.”

“I know, Phillip.” Looking at him, she reached over into the space between them. Their hands joined. “We’ll stay together no matter what. We have the upper hand this time, don’t we? We’re taking  _ them  _ by surprise. And we have Lickspittle’s, um … holyplosions. We have the tree warriors and the sprites and the animals. We have the Dark Fae!”

Phillip chewed on his lower lip a moment. “Yes. You’re right, but I can’t help but worry that Mori’ka might have something up his sleeve, even if he didn’t want us here. He’s lost his influence over Perceforest and seemingly Orlaith’s people. He must be getting desperate, and he still has a certain … influence. It’s miracle you all survived that attack on the woodland castle.”

“You mean my father,” Aurora surmised flatly.

“Not just him. Well … sort of not just him. The white raven, too. Perhaps Drugian is less of a concern now that she is being looked after by the Moors. More than that, I think Mori’ka is learning that that the best way to attack men is not via their castles, but their hearts. I don’t know how much power he truly has over the Feth Fiadha, but we must be on guard if hope is to win. If demons are known for anything, it’s turning good things into a reflection of their evil.”

His words hung in the air like the very mist.

Aurora looked away from him, anxiously clenching her fingers into the coarse fur of the bear that bore her across unfamiliar land. She could just about make out the wings of the line of desert fae ahead.

“There can only be a reflection if there is a mirror,” she murmured, so quietly that Phillip may not have even heard her, for he did not respond.

Minutes passed. The cavalcade hastened in its approach to the city. Following the desert fae, Aurora’s bear steed soon entered a formidably fast gallop, its powerful paws thundering into dirt and snow. Beyond its footsteps, the queen soon began to hear other sounds emerging from beyond the impenetrable veil of the mist.

Cries for help. Things breaking. Eldritch howls of creatures pulling their way in from another world. It was faint, but Wickpon’s fate was heartbreakingly undeniable, and she could only hope that they were there in enough time to save as many of the population as they possibly could. They were in a far better position now, she reminded herself again and again. They had the upper hand. Now, she was running towards the unfolding disaster, not away.

There was no time to stop and consider what they were about to do. They had done that already, the time was done and past, and now it was time to charge into the fray and lend their friends all the help that they could.

“I see the houses!” She heard Borra shout from far up ahead, his voice oddly distorted by the cursed murk that surrounded them all. “We’re here! The time of the Wild Hunt is now! Fae, clear a path in the mist with your wings and help the humans find their way! Everyone else, stay on guard and stay close! For the Moors and her allies! For Merin!”

“For the Moors! For Merin!” The chorus followed.

And that was it. The time of peace was over.

Aurora found herself getting truly caught up in the moment and in her passion for the cause. Drawing her sword, she unleashed a ferocious cry of her own within the din and leaned into the direction the bear took her.

With all of the present fae beating their wings and blasting the mist in a wide clearing outwards, some of the city was exposed. The cavalcade turned towards the dark brick of the main road. The gothic and slightly crooked architecture of the buildings and walls provided an unnervingly suitable setting for everything  _ else  _ that was exposed the moment the mist was blasted away to reveal them.

Monsters. Lots of them. Banshees with their veiled, rotted faces and open maws. Small, impish devils wielding pitchforks and scampering up the walls with their sharp claws. There were twisted creatures that looked like gargoyles, hunched over the buildings and overseeing the destruction being wrought by the others. Barghests, similar to black shucks, were dogs monstrous in appearance, but their teeth and claws were far bigger and their skin was so rotted that their bones could be seen through their dark fur. 

And that was only the beginning. The very tip of the iceberg. 

The worst of them were the dead. The humans. Some of them really looked confused as to why they were there. Others were clearly revelling in being able to join in with the destruction. Their pale eyes and gaunt skin was awful to behold. They were not corpses, but their spirits had gained a material form in this world and there was no denying that they had walked from another realm. A darker, treacherous island where those undeserving of Tir na Nog were left to fester and turn into the monsters that surrounded them. 

It was the only origin of the monsters that Aurora could believe. That, or the gods had really created them as a means to terrify and destroy.

That’s certainly what they were doing. Stone walls that had likely stood for hundreds of years, even surviving Wynne and her cruel Winter, tumbled as if they were made of snow themselves. Devils were laughing raucously as if it were all a game. The banshees, those awful female ghouls that drifted along holding their lanterns of bright green fire, were throwing those lanterns through the windows of homes and shrieking in such a way that chilled Aurora to her core. Out of everything she had seen in the Feth Fiadha, they were the creatures that frightened her the most. 

The desert fae fought where they needed to, but many of them were required to keep their wings beating strongly enough to keep the mist at bay as the cavalcade charged forwards. Living humans were yelling and throwing themselves out of dark alleyways and shelter at the sight of help. Those of Wickpon were a hardy sort, wielding whatever weapons they had been able to get their hands on: rusty swords, cooking pans, ladles. One even jumped out of a broken window with a rolling pin, batting at snorting devils that were clawing up his leg.

“There’s a square ahead!” Aurora heard Borra shout again, but she had no idea where his voice was coming from. “Move in! Gather as many humans as you can and protect them!”

Briefly glancing at Phillip just to make sure he was still with her, Aurora slid off the bear and ran ahead down the road. The cavalcade followed. Tree warriors stomped on any and all monsters that attacked them. Even the brave fairies that joined them put up a fight, using their power over the elements and nature to destroy and restrain the creatures, sending puffs of that green energy up into the air when the monsters perished. Pinto and Sporit, stood on the foot of a tree warrior, fiercely waved their twig swords about and poked at all the enemies they could reach.

“To me!” Aurora called towards the fleeing humans as loudly as she could. “We’re the Moors! We’re here to help you! Gather in the square where we can see!” She saw the relief on their faces before the mist came falling in yet again. The desert fae were moving ahead. “Quickly!”

The main square couldn’t have been far away, but she faced resistance. One of the gargoyle-like monsters leapt down from its perch right in front of her, forcing her to skid to a less-than-graceful stop. Its large, bulbous eyes, awful things that glowed yellow, fixed on her.

“Aurora!” Phillip shouted desperately.

She didn’t look at him, but in the corner of her eye she could see him battling two of the undead humans. A fight she would have to wait to help him see through.

The gargoyle, which stood at twice her height even in its hunched position, leaned closer and drooled from its loose, wrinkled snout. Then, it opened its mouth and revealed three rows of rancid grey teeth in a guttural bellow meant just for her. It raised a fetid paw - but Aurora was quicker, thrusting her blade straight towards its midriff.

She was no fool. She had blessed Maeve and Reverence, Phillip’s sword, just as she had blessed Diaval’s.

_ Clang.  _ The blade bounced loudly off the creature’s flank. The gargoyle was  _ actually _ made out of stone - a detail that had been difficult to see within the fluctuating mist. The contact of the blade left a useless scorch mark on her foe’s solid exterior. 

“Aurora! Watch out!” She heard Phillip call again.

She darted swiftly backwards, somehow remembering footwork with fair clarity, and had just enough time to see that a tall, dark chimney spire attached to the town hall was wobbling precariously thanks to the efforts of the devils jabbing at its foundations and cement. Phillip’s concern had not been unwarranted; only a few seconds later, the chimney toppled and crumbled noisily into pieces right where she had been stood moments ago. The devils laughed raucously and scattered, though some of them climbed up the gargoyle and sat on its massive shoulders in an apparent desire to entertain themselves with what it might do.

Every part of the monster was  _ stone.  _ How was she supposed to defeat it with a mere sword?! The answer came in the form of Lickspittle, who soared into her vision with the noisy  _ chug-chug-chug _ of his mechanical wings. Behind him, the gargoyle climbed easily over the pile of broken bricks and made straight for them. Its guttural roar sounded for all the world like boulders rolling down a rocky hill.

Aurora’s heart leapt into her throat. Raising a hand, she quickly caught the rough pouch flung her way by the pixie and sheathed her sword. Just as the gargoyle wildly swung its arms out to ensnare and crush her, she ducked and ran to the crumbling remnants of the town hall to climb up what was left of the chimney spire, granting herself the height she needed to leap off and throw the pouch right at the gargoyle’s head.

It popped. At once, a cloud of black, glittering powder surrounded the monster’s head and began to fall down upon the rest of its body. The effect was near instantaneous. It  _ screamed  _ \- the sound like a thousand forks scraping on plates - and then it began jumping back and forth between its clawed feet, raking its paws down its burning face. Through her fear and the pounding of her heart, Aurora actually felt guilty for causing the creature such pain. Just how much control did something like a gargoyle have over what it was doing?

The monster fell and squished a few devils flat underneath it. When the bodies dissipated into that mysterious, regenerating clump of mist, the swirling energies were silvery in colour, almost as if they didn’t really belong in Tech Duinn’s incarnation of the Feth Fiadha at all. 

The strange blotches of silver disappeared up into the mist and away, presumably to return to the realm from which they had emerged. There was no way of killing what was already dead, after all.

Aurora fiercely charged into the fray again to try and clear the way to the openness of the main square just ahead. She had to be careful of the stomping feet of tree warriors and the banshee lanterns that were soaring through the air towards them from the slate roofs. They were making good progress; the fairies were binding the enemies in thick vines or trapping them in the earth beneath the ruins of the paved road, and the desert fae were merciless as they dispatched the monsters with ease. Fire sprites were helping the fae keep their path easier to navigate by lighting their hands with bright, orange flames that burnt clearly in the mire of the fog. Phillip, along with the other humans, was making quick work of a troublesome band of wraiths that poured out of the sewers.

It wasn’t long until they found their way into the square, where an enormous fountain stood in the very centre. The centrepiece was a statue of a faerie and a human standing back to back, surrounded by impressive, arcing streams of water.

And before Aurora’s very eyes, an absolute monster of a ghoul took its crooked scythe and sliced the statue in twain. The faerie and the human each slowly began to fall forwards away from each other, and in the pool of water below, they smashed into formless chunks of marble.

That was what Mori’ka wanted, was it?

He would never have it.

Though the ghoul was terrifying to behold - tall and spindly and covered in tattered, rotting robes, eyes burning within skeletal sockets - Aurora charged forwards with a band of desert fae in tow. She rolled to avoid a near fatal swipe of the creature’s scythe. It was not at all a graceful sort of tumble, but she leapt back up onto her feet in an instant and plunged the blade of Maeve straight into the sternum of her foe. And again, at once did the creature react to the presence of the mysterious magic she had somehow imbued into the blade, claimed by smoke and pale flames from within. It was a painful, short-lived end. With one last shriek of what could have been dismay or relief, the ghoul crumbled into sand which in turn faded into that same silvery light.

Only this time, the light did not immediately fly away. It formed itself into a shape, one of humanoid stature that emerged with increasing clarity. Aurora was truly stunned. Her sword almost fell from her hands as she saw a spirit form where the monster had fallen, that of a human in ancient looking leather armour. He had a long, neatly groomed beard and there were blue patterns painted onto his skin.

A soul, not unlike the undead that currently marched the streets, only … different. More human. More  _ alive _ . The man looked very confused for a moment, then he turned to Aurora and stared at her as if he somehow recognised her.

Then, his troubles seem to fall away. He smiled at her, bowed his head, and then that silvery glow about him faded along with his form to once again forge a shapeless cluster of energy that disappeared up into the mist.

“... What?” She managed, staring at the empty space before her. Borra, who was stalking nearby, acknowledged her with a short nod of his head.

“Looks as though some of these monsters were once souls of Tech Duinn. That blade of yours banishes the dark magic that has transformed them. You’d better carry on swinging it wildly around, then.” The faerie smirked briefly at her.

“How could the gods let such a thing happen?!”

“The gods don’t follow  _ our  _ rules. Why should they? I know I wouldn’t. If the Pantheon of Tech Duinn wants destruction, it looks like they’ll resort to anything to get it. Mori’ka was their creation, remember?”

It was a disturbing reminder of the tale Fionnlagh had told her, one that tugged at Aurora’s conscience now more vigorously than ever. Borra was right. The demon supposedly responsible for all this  _ was _ a creation of the gods of Tech Duinn. Just like the gargoyle and all the other monsters that surrounded them now, how free was their free will, really? Was everything happening intentional beyond what Mori’ka wanted? Or had his descent into evil purely been a result of the decisions he had made? 

It was all beyond her, truly, but it hardly seemed fair that the dead were being turned into soldiers for evil, no matter what they might have done in life. 

However, there and then, her priorities had to remain with the living. 

* * *

Maleficent and her band of fairies headed south towards the shore. There, they found that the mist ended quite suddenly just before the drop to the frost-coated beach that stood pale against the dark bleakness of the Blazing Sea. At the mouth of the river, the land was just spacious enough between the water and the woods to create a large encampment that sat between the the dome of the mist. 

As before, the fairies created shelters of plants and earth ready to receive the humans when they came running. The forest and tundra fae, whose culture revolved far more around magic and healing than it did fighting, either readied themselves by the encampment or headed off to stand guard within the Feth Fiadha alongside the tree warriors. Maleficent remained in flight, patrolling the encampment in swift circles and diving in and out of the mist to make sure both sides were protected.

In the silence that followed, she fretted. 

Aurora was gone, running into battle with Borra, Phillip, and many brave fairies. Diaval was gone, too, flying somewhere up in the unknown with Udo and fae warriors. Her own family, who she was supposed to protect, were heading off into battle without the safety net of her magic. Every instinct within her screamed at her to fly into the city herself to protect them and all of the Moorfolk, but neither could she leave their precious encampment without her might. Neither could she endanger herself - or more specifically, the children growing in her womb.

She could contemplate the unfairness and injustice of it if she wanted, and certainly there would come a time that she could, but now was  _ not _ the time. Maleficent had fought many battles in her life. She had fought humans time and time again. She had fought herself. She had always fought to protect the Moors, and never would she stop. It seemed integral now more than ever that this battle was a victory for the Moors, that as many lives were protected and saved as possible. The likes of Aurora, Diaval, and Phillip were key instruments in that happening. She understood that.

It didn’t stop her from worrying that all she loved would be lost. That her most prominent fears would come to fruition and tear her heart asunder.

There was a sort of comfort, now, however. The forest fae. Her own kind. She was not alone in this fight. She never would be again, but that did not provide as much comfort as she might have thought. Not when the presence of death hung over each and every one of them, silently reaching forth with skeletal hands to feed its hunger for souls. As much as she wished for a way to pierce the veil with her golden magic of life, she simply couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t she?

She tried. Again and again, she tried. She landed by the vine structures built by the forest fae and moved past them, entering the empty space of the Feth Fiadha and holding out her hands to try again. She fought to repel the energies of death stifling her from all sides and bring her power of life into the murk, but nothing ever happened. It seemed that iron was not her only physical weakness in the world, but it was something of a blessing that the more dangerous side of her power remained.

And it wasn’t long before she needed to use it. 

The unseen that lurked in the fog became wise to the presence of fairies in their midsts. From that oppressing, eerie silence came the sounds of creatures alien to the mortal realm, hollering through the trees of the nearby woods. Maleficent summoned her staff to her and then glanced back to make sure that her kin were ready to stand their ground and keep the way open for survivors.

Holding her staff up over her head and peering fiercely into the green mists, she began to twirl it rhythmically towards the sky. Around the magical stone embedded at its crown, the faerie’s dark power began to form. It crackled like electricity, all of her anger and vengeance made manifest, a dire warning to any that dared face  _ her _ and those she sought to protect. Her surroundings darkened as though she was draining the very light from the moon and the stars to aid her cause. That powerful magic was flung away from her and it surged forth in the form of bright green fire.

Already flanked by the churning mouth of the river and the sheer drop to the beach, the encampment was now guarded on all other sides by a wall of flames that stretched high. Maleficent could feel the death of the grass and undergrowth as her fiery shield secured its position upon the earth - sacrifice that could be healed later if time allowed. A large gap was left in the flames, however, just in case there were any nearby humans that needed to find their way through.

It was all for nothing. The flames disappeared.

Maleficent watched, aghast, as the turrets of fire were turned into streams of raw magic before her very eyes by a group of banshees that had since gathered around the encampment from the forest. Those tall and twisted ghosts were holding lanterns in their mottled, rotted hands, and into those dark lanterns did the streams of Maleficent’s own magic flee to light candles within with green flame. Iron lanterns, black and decorated with skeletons and ravens and omens of death. Just like the Cumbrian Torch.

The ghastly features of the banshees were then alight in the glow of the flame that Maleficent had unwittingly granted them. They were truly horrific to gaze upon. Some wore long, ragged veils that dragged along the earth as they floated forth. Others were bare, their rotted mouths hanging open to expose rows of needle-like teeth, and their lank hair fell over their grey, waxy faces. When they screamed, it was the keening of women at the grave of a loved one and the very sound spread the grief of ages through all that could hear it.

The wail of a banshee was said to herald the death of a loved one. It was no surprise, then, that every fairy serving to protect the many shelters there at the edge of the Feth Fiadha became frozen, tendrils of doubt and fear and sorrow reaching into their souls to try and tear them apart from within. Maleficent was not exempt from the influence of those wretched apparitions. She could feel them tugging at her in all ways but physical, those invisible tendrils seeking to greedily slurp up every ounce of hope that she had left. 

But Maleficent would not allow herself to fall prey to anyone, and neither would her people become a feast for monsters. The Feth Fiadha might have possessed weapons to control her power, but there was no creature in all the realms that could control  _ her.  _ The very notion enraged her. Her power spiralled out of her once more, unafraid and unrelenting as she stood there in defence of the others. With it, she reached for chunks of ice in the snow and in the river and formed many swords out of them.

The banshees came forwards, howling in the guise of despair. Some of them were able to fling their lanterns in time and set trees on fire, much to the dismay of the forest fae. Most of the banshees, however, were skewered with those blades of ice before they could wreak havoc, and they all tumbled heavily to the ground before disappearing in curious bursts of green.

There was no chance for the group to revel in victory - no sooner had the souls of the banshees vanished into the mist, a young faerie of the forest clan called desperately from the very edge of the Feth Fiadha.

“Maleficent! Something approaches from the sea!”

They were not forgotten there at the very edge of the world, it seemed. However, it was strange that an enemy would make their approach outside of the mist that concealed them.

She turned to the fae and tree warriors flanking her. “Stand guard here. Keep watch for humans and crush any monster that approaches.”

She took to the sky once more, relieved to be freed of the banshees’ influence and the mist, if but for a moment. Emerging from the vast, green bubble that ensnared the kingdom, she flew over the empty vine structures and to the very edge of the steep, clay slope that dropped down to the dark sand of the beach. The faerie that hollered her, a young warrior that looked far too in over his head, scrambled to her side and pointed out to sea.

It was easier to see without the barrier of the mist. Ahead, beneath the light of the moon and stars, a very tall and undoubtedly supernatural figure was drifting towards the coast. Maleficent narrowed her keen eyes, quickly discerning that it was not just one figure approaching, but three, all of them with the grey skin of death and long, black hair. They were vaguely human in shape, but not in nature; they were several times taller than a human, their eyes were sunken and haunted and their sharp teeth were deadly. They might have been mistaken for banshees if not for the dread, pale glow about them.

The first of the three ghostly women hovered to the shoreline with something large in tow beneath her in the black waves. The second was also pulling something behind her. The third joined them on the beach and helped them drag two big, shapeless lumps there onto the sand. Whatever the things they had recovered were, they were oozing a greenish-black liquid that steamed in the freezing night air.

And then one of the lumps loudly groaned.

Maleficent was not sure what she was seeing, and it unnerved her. Regardless, she tightened her grip on her staff and spread her wings in intimidating fashion, concerned for the creatures bleeding out on the sand. An awful scent of blood and rotting seaweed arose from the scene below.

The three women slowly turned in the air to face her. She saw them smile. The poor boy beside her immediately started trembling, no doubt sensing for himself the dreadful, miserable energies radiating off those terrifying women. There could be no doubt at all that they were not like the monsters that haunted the mists. They were not pawns to be directed and ushered into fights like the others. No. They were undoubtedly something far worse.

And the answer came when those three women merged together into one entity: a gargantuan, ghostly figure with three faces and three pairs of arms. The woman - the  _ god _ was horrifying to behold, just as Donn had been. The lantern she held in one of her pale hands seemed to drink in the light of the Feth Fiadha and the celestial bodies peeping through it up above. Maleficent felt an awful, sickening lurch within her when she looked at it, immediately reminded once more of the Cumbrian Torch and the purpose that it had been created for.

The sound of the lantern’s chain clinking carried to her in the cold wind. The stench of the Morrigan’s exposed bones and the creatures she had dragged ashore made Maleficent feel nauseous, but most of the sickness stemmed from that feeling of something pulling at her from within. It was her  _ power _ , she realised. The Morrigan’s lantern was trying to draw at her power as much as it sucked in the light.

The lantern wasn’t strong enough. Maleficent tugged her power away from its reach with ease - but the poor faerie beside her was not so fortunate. She looked at him when he straightened suddenly and his trembling ceased. His green eyes were empty and glassy. A silvery essence leaked quickly from his mouth, nose, and eyes, draining towards the formidable god hovering below. And then he shrivelled from within, his features falling slack and his limbs turning loose. The boy crumpled to the ground and moved no more. He was gone.

It happened so quickly. Maleficent stared, heartbroken. Behind her, she heard keens of despair from her clan when they came closer and realised what had happened. 

And the god stared at her in turn, floating silently before the sea. She was waiting, Maleficent realised. Waiting to see what the Phoenix would do in response to one of her own being slain. Perhaps the monster would extend that lantern and try to enslave Maleficent’s power when she undoubtedly utilised it. Perhaps it was a trap.

But the gods were scared of the Phoenix for a reason. In wake of a young life’s loss, it was time to explore the reasons why.

Entrenched in a magnificent rage, Maleficent’s magic swelled up within and then exploded out of her in powerful waves of green and gold. It burned at her limbs and her spread wings and the land around her. It burned in her eyes, those which were fixed fiercely on the Morrigan in the fashion of an eagle descending on its prey. She cried out and swept her dark staff through the air, and a blast of magic struck the arm of the god below, severing it clean off and sending that cursed lantern flying to the ground.

From it came the flutter of silvery souls. Freed, that cloud of stolen life hung there a moment, and then soared off to disappear over the sea. Maleficent felt their confusion and their relief as they flew away towards the gateway of Tech Duinn.

The Morrigan screamed. From all three mouths, she wailed and cursed in a tainted language that pained innocent ears to hear. Though the effect of it was worse than even a banshee’s shrill cry, Maleficent was unperturbed. With nothing but coldness to be seen on her fair features, she spread her arms and gestured threateningly with the blades of her magic once more.

“Begone from this world, fiend of the ages!” She called defiantly, watching the god squirm and flinch away from the threat of her magic. “Go back to the hovel of your realm and concern yourself with the living no longer!”

The Morrigan shrieked again. Her long, black hair swirled about her faces as she drifted backwards, and a torrent of black blood oozed from her severed arm. Her pale, deadened eyes fixed on Maleficent, and all three faces sneered in fear and anger. And when she spoke, it sounded in Maleficent’s own mind. It was a cold, cursed wind that turned the Faerie’s blood to ice when it howled through the sanctity of her consciousness.

_ He promised me souls! Souls to eat, souls to devour, souls to bend and break! Even you cannot stop the tides of Death, star-born! You will see! _

With a ghastly cackle, the Morrigan disappeared into the darkness.

The wrench of that presence away from Maleficent’s mind was painful, like a dagger being pulled from her body. She clenched her fists around the pole of her staff. That god of death and war was gone, but her words lingered like ghosts.

The body of the young faerie was still. She glanced at him, willing his soul to return so that he might have a chance to live out what should have been a long, fruitful life, but the boy would never stir again. Under that watchful gaze of the Moon, his life was stolen.

_ Even you cannot stop the tides of death. _

“Forgive me, child.”

She pressed her lips together, more upset than she could allow her kin to see. They silently approached to retrieve the body of their fallen brother. Maleficent turned away from the sight and instead took to the air to circle the beach a few times, turning her attention to the  _ things  _ that the Morrigan had dragged up from the depths.

She realised with horror that it was not two creatures, but one. One monstrous thing that had been cut in half. Its entrails were spilling out onto the sand, cut from the waist down. She warily eased closer and saw that the upper half of the creature was somehow still alive and twitching. It was vaguely man-shaped, but it was certainly no human - it was far too large and strange for that. A mane of straggly black seaweed decorated its head and chin, and its eyes were those of a shark, wide and frantic as blood spilled from the open trench of its mouth.

There was a risk in helping them. She knew that. They could have been a god aligned with Tech Duinn. Their evident suffering tugged at her heart, however, and she knew there must have been a reason the Morrigan had sought to claim their life. The faerie landed down on the beach and extended a hand, lending the golden light of her magic over to the mysterious entity.

Slowly, the pieces of the creature came together and healed. It took an enormous amount of effort on Maleficent’s part, much more than it would have taken to heal a mere human; she sensed that she was healing more than bones and flesh. She was healing the creature’s very essence, the very thing that it lived to personify, which she already knew was something vast and powerful. With enormous relief did she release her power when all cracks and tears in the god’s being were at last healed shut.

Some Dark Fae watched from the top of the sheer slope. Their wings were spread, ready to sore down and defend Maleficent as that entity slowly pushed himself up onto his enormous behind. 

His skin was a greenish-grey, the colour of a corpse left out at sea. His long beard of seaweed was all that concealed his nakedness. Barnacles and urchins in their thousands clung to him - or were they a part of him? - and one of his hands was actually a lobster claw. Fleshy wings joined his arms to his hips like those of a manta ray. Strangest of all, spots of colour moved across his skin and flashed in streams of white and black, not unlike the communicative abilities of the octopus and squid.

He regarded Maleficent with fright, those patterns flashing frantically over his crooked countenance. When he opened his mouth to speak, sea water bubbled noisily out instead of words.

The faerie concentrated on his speech. Just like the trees and the beasts of the forests, they all had their own ways of communicating in the old tongue, but ultimately she could attune herself to it and understand it. It came from a place of  _ wanting  _ to understand, a place of love and protectiveness for the world she guarded. Fionnlagh taught her that. It seemed such teachings could be applied to even a god, for his fear told her a story that did not need words. The water pouring from his mouth told her that he was drowning despite that he embodied the very tides and waves.

“Do you fight for or against Tech Duinn?” She demanded of him.

The god pulled a face at that.

_ Neither. The seas are neutral and always shall they be! Ye will find no statues of me in that poxy realm, nor even in the golden meadows of Tir na Nog. That blustery old ghoul came and dragged me from me slumber and sliced me clean in half! Those landlubbers are gettin’ greedy! Souls, souls, souls, that’s all they want. Even if it’s the soul of a god!  _

Maleficent’s brow furrowed at that. “Why?”

_ Why? ‘Cause they were promised it, that’s why! That raven shapeshifter took the flame from that island so that the miserable dead could come and take more souls for their realm. They want war! It’s what they live for! They want war with man, war with Tir na Nog, and apparently war with the oceans! I’ll drown that island of theirs where it stands! _

“No,” Maleficent said quickly, alarmed. “We are taking the flame from the demon. You need not drown the island. Not until the gateway is sealed. I promise you, I am  _ just _ as vexed about these gods of death as you are.”

The god seemed to settle down a bit at that. He huffed, a waterfall of seawater spilling past his cracked lips, and stroked clawed fingers through his rubbery beard.

_ Of course yae are. Phoenix. I never agreed with what they did to ye! Me and the Moon spirit. We said, what did that poor ol’ bird ever do to them?!  _

“Then will you stand with me? See here what Tech Duinn does to kingdoms of mortal men. The Feth Fiadha assaults two of them as we speak.”

_ I not be in charge of any land domains, Phoenix! Aye, it’d be like askin’ Cernunnos to come and settle a conflict between a kraken and a leviathan! It’ll never happen! That horned bastard should be the one joining you lot on this mad venture, not old Manannán mac Lir!  _

Maleficent squared up at that, her feathers ruffling with irritation. She bared her fangs and stormed closer to the god, jabbing at where he had recently been severed in two with her staff.

“I just saved your life, you miserable creature!”

_ Oh, aye, ye did, but I am the sea and the sea is me. Neutral ground! Or, er … water. I ain’t inviting the wrath of either of those pantheons upon me. When you need a seafarin’ favour that en’t related to war, call upon me again! _

Before Maleficent could make her heated argument, Manannán quickly melted down into a mixture of water and small marine animals. Hundreds of fish jumped towards the water licking at the shore while hundreds more crabs and lobsters scuttled away. There were no more words to be heard in their frantic escape back to their home. She considered that the creature might have been more useful left to rot in stinking halves there on the sand.

Abandoned by the hope that had awakened with the presence of a sea god, Maleficent stared furiously out to the water a moment longer, then opened her wings to return to the encampment and the haunted mists of the Feth Fiadha. There, the body of the faerie boy was being carried into one of the shelters. One of his kin covered him with a soft blanket, and then the faerie was no more.

Maleficent watched, a rampant desire for vengeance spilling from her heart. It was bad enough that her own family were in peril, but now the dark forces they faced dared lay claim to the souls of her rare people, too? Worst of all, they were left alone to defend their lives, their kingdoms, and their friends. Manannán, for all his perceived cowardice, was right. Where were the gods? Why weren’t they fighting for their people? The lands they had helped build?

If it was to fall on her shoulders, then so be it. She would find a way to protect her family and people, with or without the help of a craven pantheon that existed only in the form of worn down statues.

She was, after all, stronger than they could ever be.


	21. The Song’s Encore

Finding the castle was no easy task when it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of his face. 

Diaval flew alongside Udo and a young, equally stoic tundra fae that turned out to be Udo’s son, Yuka, the only one of the clan leader’s children old enough to fight. Followed by a group Dark Fae and an assortment of winged fairies, they headed for the towering black spires they knew laid somewhere in the endless fog. Fire sprites and firefly fairies flew ahead to light the way which helped a little, though true vision came when Yuka reached his arms forth and used magic to create a cold, brisk wind from the tips of his fingers.

With the fog mostly dispersed around them, Diaval’s keen senses picked up on sounds returning to them from an undoubtedly large structure nearby. Wearing the shape of a proud, black griffin, he screeched from his raven bill and sought its echo once more just to be sure. With a quieter squawk towards his comrades, he tilted and led the way down to the massive walls of dark stone that emerged sullenly from the wafting clouds of the Feth Fiadha. 

Yuka threw out an arm again, this time pelting a line of large windows with ice until they shattered, millions of shards of glass flying out in every direction. Diaval hung back until the fairies soared on through, then clumsily attached himself to the tower and tried to squash himself through the gap that had appeared much bigger from a distance. Noticing his struggle, Udo and Yuka took hold of his front talons and heaved him through.

It was finally safe to transform into his man-shape. Diaval did so with casual air, brushing bits of glass off his fly plaid as he emerged from the swathe of shadow.

“If people start tellin’ stories about all this, I don’t want anyone to know about the part I got stuck in a window.”

“Of course, Grá Príomha,” Yuka responded at once in full seriousness, even bowing a little bit. “We can of course recount the windows as being much larger.”

The tundra fae murmured quietly their assent. Diaval stared at them in bewilderment, then turned about a bit to take in the grand hallway they had found themselves in. In typical Wickpon style, the empty suits of armour lining the walls were black and armed with fierce axes, and red, velvet curtains were draped over the extravagant archways either side of them. On the wall was a very dramatic tapestry depicting a wild-haired shield-maiden facing an entire army on her own.

Queen Mera. No doubt something of an exaggeration of events, but Diaval had no doubt that her people had won against all odds. 

“What would you have us do, Diaval?” Udo asked, distracting him back to the task at hand. Diaval realised with a degree of surprise that the entire group was watching him and waiting for orders. He wondered how him being Maleficent’s mate equated to him being somebody that actually had a clue what he was doing.

“Erm … Udo, you know a thing or two about battle, right? And you’re, er …”

“Old?” The faerie suggested, raising a single white eyebrow.

“Experienced! Is the world I would use.”

“Your years may be few, but you know more than you may feel, friend. What is the priority?”

Diaval realised quite suddenly that he was panicking. There was sweat on his brow that was nothing to do with exertion or heat - Wickpon was a perpetually cold kingdom. His thoughts were a flurry now that they were past the walls. He’d been so determined to just make it this far that he hadn’t thought a whole lot about what came after. Udo’s cool, calm monotone helped him calm down somewhat, however.

How annoying. Ravens like him weren’t supposed to panic. _He_ should have been the one calming people down. That was something he was supposed to be good at. And yet, a lot of things had happened since the days that was one of his sole purposes in life.

“Priority? … Priority, yes, we need to get the humans out. Er, fairies, spread out in groups across the castle and gather the humans. Escort them all out and through the town if you can. If not, find Aurora and join forces with her until they can cleave a way through. Fae, protect the fairies. Some of ‘em are only small.” Diaval cast a worried gaze at the flower fairies fluttering nearby. Anything that small and still willing to fight was a lot braver than he was.

They didn’t need telling twice. The fairies bundled up into groups and began to head off down each end of the hallway with their fae guardians in tow. Udo and Yuka lingered back with Diaval, watching him expectantly.

“Be careful, you lot!” Diaval shouted as the fairies turned the corners and disappeared. He swallowed thickly, absolutely hating to see them venture off into the midst of monsters that could squash most of them flat in an instant. Their magic was strong, but their bodies were so fragile.

“They’ll be guarded well, Diaval,” Udo assured him, touching a hand to his shoulder. “If your intention is to find the queen and the prince, my son and I will gladly accompany you!”

Right. Mera and Pioden. Diaval’s personal mission in the unfolding disaster. He nodded, then quickly chose a random end of the hallway to head for. He only knew his way around the lower levels of the enormous castle from his visits, and the queen and prince could have been just about anywhere, if they were even in the castle at all. 

They vacated the hallway just in time; as Diaval approached the archway, a sudden foul, blustering wind from the other side blew him straight off his feet and into the arms of his fae companions. An offensive sort of smell blew in along with it, one he reluctantly likened to a mixture of a volcanic sulphur and wallerbog farts. He was swiftly distracted from it when the source of the howling wind revealed themselves in the form of ghostly, misshapen heads that flew into the hall, blowing the wind from their mouths.

He had no word for what the creatures could possibly be. Disturbed, he quickly righted himself and watched with dismay as those … _things,_ the howling ghost-heads, lined themselves up with the suits of armour and disappeared into them with horribly fragrant puffs of green smoke. That magic resumed to glow from the inside of the armour, instead, and to the horror of all there to witness it, the suits of armour came to life upon their pedestals and clumsily clanked their way down to the floor, their gleaming axes held aloft.

Diaval raised a finger at them, perhaps with a sort of idea in his mind that involved telling the suits of armour off for unhelpfully coming to life like that. He thought better of it. It wasn’t like armour had ears, and those axes they held were very large and sharp. Especially when they were being aimed in _his_ direction.

The haunted suits began marching forwards in unison, rattling with the force of the ghosts occupying the hollow spaces inside. With the tide of green mist beginning to seep slowly in through the broken windows, it became difficult to see them. Diaval abruptly turned with the intention of vacating the immediate premises as fast as he could, but he found himself walking face first into something so solid that he ended up stumbling back into the hold of the fae a second time.

A gargoyle was blocking the way out. The cursed thing sat there quite contently with its knobbly knees drawn up to its chest. Though it appeared to be made of stone, it was still able to smile, albeit with the sort of sinister finesse one might expect from a walking lump of rock and dark magic. 

Yuka was the first to act - he blasted the gargoyle with a powerful and blistering gale from his hands. Shards of ice pelted the creature, but the tundra magic did nothing to cause it harm. At that, the young faerie looked at his father with fearful eyes. 

The walking suits of armour were quickly gaining on them (although a couple had already fallen over as a result of stiff, rusty legs). In his fear, Diaval forgot that he was quite capable of shapeshifting and actually helping in the efforts of fighting their enemies off - though only for a moment. He could have smacked himself. Instead, he dropped onto all fours and pulled on his bear-shape, also forgetting just how big he could get in such a form. Poor Udo and Yuka were unceremoniously shoved against the wall, wings flapping helplessly against Diaval’s enormous girth.

It was fortunate that Maleficent had apparently enchanted his armour to transform with him rather than just disappear, for an axe bounced right off his shoulder, leaving a dent in place of a wound. Allowing the bear instincts to take over, Diaval bellowed furiously and charged towards the clanking ghouls, swiping at them with his massive paws as he went. Pieces of armour went flying up and clattering about in every direction.

He skidded to a halt and awkwardly turned within the confines of the hall. Although the armour suits were bested, the ghosts that wore them were not; a ghastly, green hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the nearest axe to lob it so hard in Diaval’s direction that the metal pole of it thudded straight into his skull. Dazed, he sat back on his rear and swatted uselessly at the translucent limbs and heads that manifested around him.

“The sword, Diaval!” Udo called, remarkably calm despite the axes dancing in the air around him. The fae used their powerful wings to blast the creatures away, but it was the most they could do against this particular sort of dead, for their icy magic did not affect that which could not truly be touched.

Diaval transformed back into his man-shape, though the magic came with concerning difficulty, the wildness of the bear form seemingly refusing to let go in the midst of danger. No sooner had his paws turned back into hands, he seized the sword at his waist and spun it through the air around him, feeling somewhat ridiculous in doing so given that it was _ghosts_ he was fighting.

As it turned out, while the blade might have done little, the mysterious magic coaxed forth by the pure heart of Aurora did the trick just fine.

Diaval squawked and leapt into the air when the ghosts that had been about to swarm him exploded into white flames. Terrified that _he_ was about to get caught up in that horrible, burning magic, he ducked and crawled out underneath the screeching monsters just before they burnt into strange, glowing ashes. Stranger still was the pale energy that arose up from them, very different indeed to the putrid green of the mist sweeping in.

The silvery energy hung there a moment, then it swooped up out of the window to presumably go about its ghostly business.

Alarmed, Diaval stared down at the blade of his sword and made a mental note never to touch it. Not even out of his raven curiosity. With a swallow, he feigned confidence as he headed past the very surprised faeries and back towards the gargoyle watching fearfully from the archway. Diaval lifted his sword and pointed it at the creature, hoping that he at least looked somewhat more formidable than he felt.

“Off with you, yeh great lump o’ slag, or you’ll meet the same fate that lot did! En garde!” He twirled his sword clumsily and then immediately dropped it. The gargoyle gaped at him, then its hideous stone face scrunched up with a scowl before it grumpily moved aside to cause chaos elsewhere. 

Diaval hurriedly picked up his sword and sheathed it, turning back to his faerie companions. They looked more confused than they did impressed, much to his disappointment.

“Any time I drop the sword doesn’t go into the story, either,” he said quickly, then stepped quietly to the arch to peep around the other side. The corridor there was near enough identical to the one they were already in, but the coast was clear. All they needed to do was find the stairs. It had to be easy, right?

“What does en garde mean?” Yuka whispered as they headed off.

“It means, er … Y’know, I have no idea. It’s a thing humans say sometimes when they’re whippin’ their swords out. Must be like some sort of code word to initiate a fight.”

“Yes, it must be,” Yuka agreed quite seriously. 

“Let us make haste,” pressed Udo sagely, and he deftly moved ahead of Diaval towards the end of the grand corridor, his white wings gleaming in the green glow of the mist gathering between the walls. “It will be easier to find Mera and Pioden if we can see. Diaval, can you smell them?”

Diaval scented the air. His sensitive nose could pick up nothing but that lingering smell of brine. Pushing aside his pride, he shapeshifted into a wolf and trotted reluctantly along in that wretched shape, lowering his nose to the ground to give it a few strong sniffs. Canine forms had their uses, he supposed, but only when absolutely necessary. It was a blessing that Udo was there to present the ideas that Diaval was apparently incapable of thinking of in his rising, tumultuous concern. 

They were a mere step into the castle, but one step was better than none. Gathering his wits, he concentrated on the broad array of scents he detected on the crimson rug. Most were somewhat stale with age, but some scents were fresh. There was the leather of boots, perfume, tobacco smoke … the latter was the freshest of all. A startling image presented itself in Diaval’s mind the moment he smelt it. A freezing Winter night, an empty street. A single building with its windows glowing warmly with candlelight. A stout woman stood just outside the door, a carven pipe between her fingers.

With a whine and then a quiet, gruff bark, Diaval led the way through the labyrinth of dark halls, following his nose. The smell was relatively recent enough that he trusted it. A few hours old at most, and he doubted that Mera could have gotten far if the Feth Fiadha had taken the kingdom by surprise. 

What if they were too late?

That unpleasant and heart wrenching thought followed him. He’d known Mera for the years that followed the time in Wickpon. She was a very good friend, one that could banter with the best of them. More than that, she was family to the Moors. She was the shield of Wickpon, kind and generous and tough as boots. She’d shown him an enormous kindness when he was a raven believed to be the servant of an unforgiving Moon Witch.

There was the possibility she had lost this fight. He knew that. He dared not believe it. And what of Pioden? Where was the young prince that had earned himself Diaval’s fondness with his incessant questions and misguided admiration? What if he was hurt, or worse? 

Wickpon would persevere. He knew it. But would they recover? Lives were undoubtedly lost. What if Mera and Pioden were gone because he was taking too long to get to them? But that couldn’t be true. Not until he had seen it for himself.

Onwards he went, avoiding the passages that housed all manner of monstrous creatures. After what felt like far too long, the tobacco scent led him to a landing decorated with yet more suits of armour and weapons about the walls. Through the haze of the mist seeping into the castle, he could see a glittering chandelier hanging above the steep grand staircase, only it was creaking as it swung slowly back and forth thanks to the impish devils holding onto the chains. The mischievous laughter of the creatures ceased as soon as they heard the approach of Diaval and the fae. Their horned heads spun to face them, tiny pinpricks of pale light shining from hollow eye sockets.

Before the devils could attack, Udo summoned frosty magic between his hands and then calmly thrust his palms out. A thin but razor sharp sheet of ice soared so quickly towards the dark chain keeping the chandelier aloft that it sliced straight through the metal. The shrieks of the devils were piercing as they fell that long drop to certain doom, but louder was the clatter of glass and metal against the stone of the staircase. 

Diaval winced as he watched the souls of the squashed monsters disappear. At once, he transformed back into his man-shape and turned to the others, about to suggest that they were getting close - but his heart sank when he saw their eyes move to something undoubtedly emerging from the mist behind him. No doubt the din had attracted something from within its concealing depths.

Suddenly - _thunk._

Something hard struck his head before he could even attempt to defend himself. If not for the raven helm, he might have been knocked unconscious by the force of the blow. It served to stun him instead. He crashed down onto the stairs and rolled down them a little way before he gained his bearings and righted himself, but before he could gain sights of his assailant, something thudded onto his shoulders and yanked him further down the cold stone of the stairs. Broken glass crunched beneath him.

He was immediately winded when he smashed down onto the small landing below. Panicking, he tried to throw whatever creature was wrapping itself around him away, then thrust himself against the wall to stun it into releasing him. It didn’t work. Armoured fingers were scrabbling at his silver breastplate from behind. A furious, pained wheezing sounded close to his ear. Steeling himself, he thrust himself back against the wall again with all the strength he had and finally knocked the creature away.

It wasn’t a creature at all.

Udo and Yuka raced down the stairs with magic glittering between their fingers, but they quickly realised there was no need for it.

The attacker was Pio. The young prince was wild-eyed with panic and fear, breathing so heavily it seemed he might asphyxiate. His armour was carelessly slung on in apparent haste. He sat there against the wall with tears in his eyes, looking desperately between three familiar faces, and then his gaze fell into his shaking hand.

“Stop with the illusions! Stop it! I won’t help you!”

Diaval’s relief was so intense that he momentarily felt giddy with it. At once, he dropped down to his knees and gingerly approached, carefully rapping a hand against Pio’s shin guard before fastening the loose belt there.

“It’s me, Pio. It’s Diaval. Bearfoot, remember? I’ll keep this quick, but the Moors have come to help you. Are you hurt?”

“B-Bearfoot?” Slowly, Pio peeped at Diaval through the gaps between his fingers. “Are you real this time?! Where is everyone? What the hell is happening?! Is this …?”

“The Feth Fiadha, yes. The Moors have come to -“

Before he could finish, Pio was wrapped around him again, though this time not having mistaken him for a threat. The boy was still terrified, shivering as he clung fast to Diaval’s frame. The things he had seen must have been truly horrifying; Diaval knew him as one that would put on an insistent front of being unafraid, but now they were all surrounded by dangerous entities they could not hope to understand. His heart was softened by the plight of the prince. 

He slowly tried to stand. Pio followed him, all but hanging off his neck with his face buried in the fly plaid. Diaval awkwardly patted his back.

“Hey, it’s me! You’re alright, now. We’ll get you out of here. D’you know where your mother is?”

Pio made a strange choking sound against his chest.

“Fighting in the throne room … I _think_ . That’s what the guards said before they - before _she_ -“

“Who?” Udo cut in with a surprisingly sharp tone. It almost sounded as though he already knew just who Pio was referring to.

Just as Diaval did. 

Yuka stepped quietly down to the landing and gently took Pioden’s arm, prising him away. He, too, looked gravely concerned. 

All the snow in the world could not reflect just how cold the castle turned. For Diaval, there was no gargoyle, banshee, nor devil that could terrify him as much as one who was a monster in mind more than in body. He’d known full well that going into the Feth Fiadha to face the legion of Tech Duinn would put him directly where one corrupt soul wanted him, but to defend Wickpon and the peace his daughter led, such an ordeal was a necessary one. Even if it felt as though his heart would wither and curl like a petal drained of life by a frigid Winter wind. It remembered the curse that once claimed it as well as he did.

“What’re we hangin’ around for? Let’s go,” he croaked into the silence.

On they went, down, down into the depths of the grand stairwell that descended through the castle. Diaval’s sweat was cold and prickled across every inch of him. His senses were on edge. Something didn’t feel right - even more so than usual considering the unnatural monsters breaking into the castle. It felt as though they were being followed, but when Diaval looked over his shoulders up the shadowy stairs, he could see nothing there. No pale shadows of faeries long dead. Nothing.

They reached the ground floor at long last. Steeling himself, Diaval took the quivering Pioden’s hand into his and led the group forth into the even more grandiose halls that the great castle boasted. These parts of the structure were at least familiar to him, though a sense of direction hardly filled him with any more confidence. He felt hot and cold all at once, even dizzy with the thought of what the near future held. The Cumbrian Torch at his back felt oddly heavier than ever before, as though it was trying to weigh him down or pull him into the darkest recesses of the place.

Pioden’s hand was tight around his. The young man seemed focused on Diaval more than anything, as though trying to block out the world around him. He could hardly be blamed for it. Cries and screeches of monsters and humans alike sounded distantly down the darkened halls. The sparse candlelight cast terrible dancing shadows upon the black walls. Statues of former kings and queens of the great northern kingdom were sullen as they silently watched their castle fall to ruin, their stone hands reaching forth as if to help them, but there was no life behind those eyes. 

And then there was a flash of white. Before Diaval’s eyes, the white raven flew out from a stone alcove and settled on the head of one of those statues. It hunched its wings and watched them with unsettling red eyes, its pale beak hanging open with excitement.

It was wounding to see it. Diaval stopped. It was a feeling he would never be able to describe knowing just what the wraith was and seeing it again. It was a severed limb stolen from him and fed to the black wolves of the Otherworld. It belonged to _him,_ and yet there the brazen phantom was, crowing at them in antagonising fashion and daring them onwards. Worse was the feeble rasp of its croak. The break in its song. Raven as it was, its language was one that Diaval understood.

_Go on. Go on. Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I? Why are you me? Or am I you? Why am I here?_

“Diaval?” Pioden’s shaken voice interrupted the raven’s confused caws. “What is that thing?!”

Diaval gazed up at it a moment longer, then gritted his teeth and forced himself to move onwards.

“Remember what I said about fetches? There ya go. Don’t pay it any mind.”

“It’s changing!”

His jaw tightened yet further. He glanced back. The white raven was no longer a raven but a cloud of white, magical mist. From that mist emerged a bird of similar size - a snowy owl, pure white with the barest black flecks at its wings. It spun its head to face them, and it stared, its red eyes as round as moons. 

Diaval quickly looked away from it. Against his will, the doors to the past were opening silently on well-oiled hinges. He’d learnt long ago that these more human emotions were perfectly capable of manifesting themselves as a physical pain, as clawed hands reaching from the aether to pull one into a sort of living Hell from which there seemed to be no escape. He hadn’t understood it for the longest time. Perhaps he still didn’t, but he knew it was what his family had tried diligently to protect him from for months by keeping him where nothing could hurt him.

He flinched when Pio’s hand landed on his arm. 

“Are you alright?” Pio asked insistently. The way he stared was oddly disconcerting - but it was just Diaval’s mind playing tricks on him. There was nothing that could seem normal in the presence of the Feth Fiadha. 

The white shapeshifter hooted from atop the statue. Beneath it, Udo and Yuka were also staring with apparent discomfort between Diaval and Pio, similarly unnerved.

“Yes,” Diaval responded slowly, pulling his arm from the boy’s hold. He could have sworn he detected a small flare of anger in Pio’s eyes before turning away. His heart was beating frantically. He found himself frozen in place, a cold fuzziness creeping in to occupy what once might have been clear thought. Sweat trailed slowly down his temples and down his neck. 

Where was Aurora? Maleficent?

“Diaval,” Udo spoke quietly, though there was a trace of something in his voice that was unfamiliar. “Something foul is afoot. We must keep moving.”

Diaval gritted his teeth and shook his head. He felt a wary hand slip into his again. Pioden leaned against him, his breathing still rampant.

“It’s that thing,” Diaval stated angrily, nodding towards the pale wraith atop the statue. “It’s a fetch. It’s bad luck, isn’t it? Can you take care of it?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Udo moved slowly forwards with his arms folded, his wings spreading to protect the others from anything that might have thought to attack them from behind. 

“To fear a bad omen gives it its power. This ghost may seek to distract you from your purpose here, but only as the watchful eyes of a demon. You might consider that it is as worthy of compassion as the soul it was torn from, friend, lest it haunts you until your last breath. Let us continue on. The living are still in need of us.”

Though those grave feelings still hung from him like imps, Diaval gripped Pio’s hand and tarried on down the hall, leaving the snowy owl behind to deal with later. Having come face to face again with a twisted aspect of his own spiritual anatomy, simply carrying himself felt all the more difficult in wake of the things he knew the creature had done, just whose service it was bound to. It just wasn’t him to do those things. He would tie no part of himself to Mori’ka.

Except the time when he had. Foolishly lured by Mori’ka’s power out of desperation to see his family, the white raven was a part of himself that he had unwittingly given away in return. How was he supposed to have compassion for such a creature? Where had something like _compassion_ gotten him lately? 

He probably should have stopped and whacked his own head against the wall just to come back to his senses. Udo was right. Udo was always right. It was sort of a part of who the faerie was. Udo had seen the decline of one who he had loved greatly. It stood to reason, then, that he could see when one’s thoughts were turned to that which would be their ruin. Just as Wynne had fallen. Just as Mori’ka had fallen.

His thoughts were a whirlwind, nothing felt right, but Diaval allowed a few important matters to come to the forefront of it all: Mera, who needed his help. Pioden, who was without his family. Aurora and Maleficent, who were somewhere out there fighting for what was right. The fairies, so small and yet so brave, who had looked towards him for leadership for mind-boggling reasons. He could not forget them in his fear.

And yet it followed him. The white raven. The snowy owl. He could hear it fluttering from statue to statue. He did not pay it any attention, instead marching on towards the throne room with Pioden and the tundra fae behind him. His legs felt mysteriously weak, as though the weight of walking was becoming too much. The Cumbrian Torch felt heavier than it ever had before.

As they approached the throne room, his heart leapt into his throat. He was sure he could hear a familiar voice emerging from the large alcove ahead.

“I think it’s Mera!” He exclaimed quietly, shrinking back against the wall as a small monster with the head of a pig was lobbed unceremoniously out into the entrance hall. The fetid little thing squealed and snorted with vigour towards whoever had thrown it, took one look at Diaval and the others, then dropped on all fours and ran in the opposite direction. 

“... that’s right! Go and tell all your horrible little friends to come here! I’ll show ‘em what happens when you invade Wickpon! Hey-YAH!”

Another pig monster shot out of the throne room and bounced several times along the ground like a rubber ball. 

Elated, Diaval made to run into the chamber ahead - but he was suddenly yanked back by Pioden. Despite the prince being smaller and younger than himself, he was much stronger than he appeared, holding so tightly on to his hand that it actually hurt. Stranger still was the oddly blank expression on his face, fixated on Diaval as though his mother wasn’t fighting for her life mere moments away.

Despite the absurdity of it, there was no telling the things Pioden might have seen up there in the upper levels of the castle while fighting. If his words were true, he had faced the Moon Witch herself and somehow lived to tell the tale, even if he wasn’t yet forthcoming with the details. Such strange behaviour could no doubt be attributed to an unbridled fear in response to the horror of all that was unfolding.

Diaval did not pull himself away this time. Though desperate to reach his friend fighting beyond, he held Pioden’s hand back in turn and regarded him with a miraculous patience. However, he did subtly jerk his head towards the throne room - a silent request for Udo and Yuka to move on ahead, which they immediately did so with magic glittering at their fingers.

“Diaval …” Pio muttered when they were alone, as though only just coming to terms with what was happening. “It’s … really you. It’s …” His brown eyes were wide. One of them twitched.

“We’ve gotta move,” Diaval insisted calmly. “We’ll have time to think about all this later. We just have to reach Maleficent. She’s set up a safe place for your people near the river.”

Upon hearing Maleficent’s name, something strange happened to Pioden, then. He frowned an uncharacteristic frown. The vacant panic in his eyes changed to fear, and then to … contempt? Why? And then his grip around Diaval’s hand tightened all the more, gripping and gripping until it felt as though all the bones within might bend and break at any moment. 

Diaval had no choice but to kick him away. He might have felt bad if his friend didn’t skid away and right himself with what appeared to be an inhuman finesse. The Pioden he knew probably would have toppled over and laughed it off, even in the face of so much danger.

The cold feeling in his gut worsened. It felt as though he had been kicked himself. How stupid and blind could he have been? Surrounded by monsters, shapeshifters, magical and wicked souls, there had of course been every chance that friendly faces were not so friendly, after all. 

Pio - or whoever it really was behind that magical mask - looked at him with forced betrayal, his brow furrowing deeply. 

“Don’t touch me again,” Diaval demanded weakly, taking several steps backwards. “I’ll bite your bloody arms off.”

“That isn’t very nice,” the not-Pioden pouted, sincere tears springing up.

“Y’know what’s not nice? Invadin’ a kingdom in the dead of night. Now, get lost!”

“Oh, but …” Not-Pioden’s eyelashes fluttered. Apparently gaining some resolve, he squared himself up, and then he smiled a pained little smile. Indeed, the pain did not seem to come from any genuine remorse from what he was doing, but out of pure insult. “Wouldn’t you like to know where your stupid little friend is? That _idiot_ had no idea what was happening. All I had to do was drag him out of his nest and away. He’ll surely die without your help, poor thing!”

The creature’s manner of speaking was all too familiar. It was jibing, infantile, sounding as though it was on the verge of a tantrum at every instance. It was a monster talented in the art of magic and illusion, even once going so far as to abuse the power of a faerie artefact for its own maddened ends. 

And he had touched her again. He’d held her hand.

Mera’s calls of victory sounded through the halls, as did the various _thuds_ of her weapons striking her foes. The air was cold; puffs of snow and ice blasted out of the throne room every so often, likely the result of Udo and Yuka fighting alongside her. She was just about in reach, his good friend. He could shout and she would hear, but he suddenly couldn’t find his voice. What emerged was a pathetic croak barely audible to his own ears, let alone Queen Mera. One of the few humans that had ever shown him mercy for being what he was. A mother to a son she had not long reconciled with, and now that son was missing again, stolen away by the mad witch that had sought to destroy their family once before.

“Oh, Diaval,” Wynne sighed fondly, looking the poor shapeshifter over with pretend sympathy. “You look older. It’s alright. I think I like it. I suppose I just remember you how you were … my own treasure. My pretty little bird. I must have thought of you … _every_ night since then. I got angrier and angrier, thinking about how you betrayed me. And now I see you and it’s like all the anger just disappears. Strange, isn’t it? Merin always said there’s no room for hate between mates.”

It was a nightmare come to life. So similar the scene was to things that he had witnessed in dream, Diaval had a hard time believing that it could be true. He had an even harder time remembering that Wynne didn’t have the Phoenix Emerald, that she was nowhere near as powerful as she was when he had known her, that she couldn’t manipulate his form as painfully as she desired. There were other ways she could hurt him, however, and she plainly knew it. She had taken Pioden and assumed his form. What else would she resort to?

“We’re not -“ Diaval barely managed, then stopped himself. He reached for his sword and unsheathed it. “Tell me where the prince is.”

Wynne giggled. It sounded strange coming from Pioden’s mouth.

“As if I’ll tell you that easily. You haven’t forgotten what you did to me, have you? You really had the nerve to let the curse kill you. You really tried to leave _me_ . Well, nobody leaves me, little raven. Especially not my own mates. You tried to break a sacred bond between us and that shouldn’t go unpunished.” Wynne smiled and tilted her head despite the tears still lingering in that stolen gaze. “I want you to meet with me, Diaval. Alone. Away from these wingless imbeciles. Away from _Maleficent_. Maybe then I’ll tell you where the prince is.” That false smile dripped away. The tears remained. One of them finally spilled over and froze against her glamoured cheek. “Are the whispers true?” She spoke, her demeanour switching to something far more morose in an instant. “Is she pregnant, Diaval? Have you given that disgusting harpy what you could have given me? I was in season when you were with me. We could have had beautiful little babies. So many tiny, pretty fledglings, ours to love and care for forever. Instead, you just let me die. You just stood there and let it happen.”

His stunned silence must have served as confirmation. Wynne’s borrowed features twisted with a wild rage, then. She slowly bared her teeth, the anger that she had managed to restrain pushing itself to the fore. Harsh breaths came heavily through her nose. In a swirl of white, the faerie released the glamour disguising her and she stepped fervently towards Diaval, her bedraggled white wings spreading as if to ensnare him entirely.

Her eyes were dull with the colour of death. Still, that she was dead did nothing to hinder her. She had her magic. Her spirit was empowered by the Feth Fiadha, which lended it a tangible form. When she grabbed Diaval’s arm, he could feel the cold of her flesh pervading his armour, but worse was the agonised, ghastly smile that plastered across her face the moment she came in contact with him again.

“You just stood there,” she said again, her chapped lower lip wobbling dangerously. “All the things you took from me … If not for the things you gave, I would cut your throat! Why is my heart set on a raven? A _raven._ Horrible, self-serving little tricksters. Carrion eaters. Devils in the flesh. The words your kind whisper are so clever, so sweet, even if they sound so coarse. I just can’t be without it.”

Diaval felt bile rise and burn in his throat. Shock wielded dizzying effects. Wynne’s touch repulsed him, a sickening chill coursing up his limbs and down his spine. It was terrifying how weak she made him, both her physical presence and her words. It threatened to numb him entirely, to turn him deaf to the struggles of the world outside of what he could see in front of him, to blind him to all colours but the white of her hair and wings. Struggling to breathe, he stared silently at the faerie as her deadened gaze moved over him.

“Don’t you have _anything_ to say?” She hissed, tears threatening once more. “Nothing? No apologies for the things you did? If you had just stayed with me, Diaval, maybe I could have changed. We could be out there somewhere. _Happy_. Didn’t you ever think about that?” Wynne watched him beseechingly, black talons reaching forth to greedily caress Diaval’s waxen cheek. She sighed. “You will. Maybe I’ll tell you a little secret to get things started. This castle is moments from destruction! I saw them. Terrible monsters. They’re in the crypts beneath the castle as we speak. They had plans for the chamber right beneath the throne room. Are you ready to fly? Are you ready to find me?”

Despite her anger, Wynne giggled and roughly released Diaval’s arm. After a little dance of depraved delight, she deeply inhaled the air and then skipped away to the torn down main doors of the castle, turning only to look at him once more when she stopped in the middle of the tall, carven alcove. The white raven flew from the corridor and disappeared outside with a throaty croak. Wynne smiled, blew a kiss, and then she too disappeared hastily into the wall of green mist beyond. 

Startled by her sudden disappearance, Diaval stumbled back against the wall. His chest heaved. His blood was cold. He couldn’t think. What affliction was this? Yet another strange fragility of the human mind? Why hadn’t he been able to do anything? He should have sliced her, torn her limb from limb! And yet he simply hadn’t been able to _move_. The world felt as though it had just … stopped.

Something rattled pressingly in the back of his mind. Something about _chambers_ and _destruction_. Wynne had told him something important among her accusing jibes, probably only because she wanted him to live long enough to meet with her. Gradually, those words pieced themselves back together.

Mera. Mera was right there. He had to get to her, he had to warn her that something was going to happen. The forces of Tech Duinn wanted her there in that throne room for a reason.

He ran. Desperate, Diaval charged into the throne room and was met with the glorious sight of spiralling black pillars reaching high up towards an elaborate arched ceiling. Wickpon’s castle was a true work of art, rumoured to have taken decades to build from the stone of the nearby mountains. Even more wonderful to behold was the kingdom’s queen, a tapestry brought to life, a shield-maiden of many wars and kindnesses. She stood on the dais of her throne, burying her axe into the heads of any monsters that approached.

There was a brief moment their eyes met. It was as though no time had passed at all. Her wild mane of hair streamed behind her when she turned to run to him, her dark eyes lighting up with true joy upon seeing him.

“Look who it is!” The queen proclaimed brightly in the manner of one merely taking a stroll through a garden. “I’m still waiting for my letter back. I take it post moves slowly in the Moors? Well, no matter. It seems I have bigger things to worry about, doesn’t it?” She paused only to bonk the helm of a pig monster with the pole of her axe. “Bless you for coming, Diaval. Bless the Moors! How the hell did you get here so quickly?!” Her steely features faltered just slightly. “Have you seen my son?”

They almost reached each other. 

Udo and Yuka, who had just disposed of the fire-flinging banshee skulking nearby, froze completely. Their eyes were wide with terror.

Diaval did not have time to contemplate just what they might have heard or felt beneath their feet. He did not reach Mera, nor even get a chance to say a word to her.

The dark stone beneath their feet exploded.

It was no small force. An immense shockwave sent Diaval catapulting in an unknown direction. Blinded by hot smoke and a torrent of fire spilling from the bowels of the castle, he lost sense of which way was up or down. The deafening sound of the blast tore through the entire castle. Enormous chunks of stone broke through walls and windows and clattered to the broken ground. Diaval fell, and his stomach lurched upon the brief realisation that nothing was stopping his fall. Down, down he went, down into the darkness, tumbling into the cavernous hole that the explosion had ripped through the throne room.

He transformed clumsily between shapes in his panic. Something with wings. Something without them. It wasn’t enough. He fell heavily down onto the ground and chunks of the castle fell into the maw with him.

* * *

The blast felt to disturb the entire kingdom. The earth shook with the force of it. Aurora felt the ground shudder beneath her feet, and then the horrible booming sound thundered across the sky. It even gave pause to the goblin that was giving her trouble there in the city square, giving her a chance to throw the creature into the fountain nearby.

“That came from the castle,” Phillip shouted from within the mist. He soon emerged from it, his face glistening with sweat and a thin stream of blood from his nose. “Borra!”

From the chaos of the fight between man, fairy, and monster upon that stretch of cobbled stone, Borra emerged with a powerful stroke of his wings and sent several smaller monsters flying in every direction. His feathers were stained with blood, but he carried himself into the air with as much strength as ever and beat at the mist until much of the square was exposed. Following his stead, his kin headed further out and disposed of the veil with their wings until the walls of the castle could be seen in the distance.

By the light of fire sprites, the steadfast wall of the entrance hall was now nothing but a pile of rubble. The magnificent wooden doors were rendered mere splinters. In the horrified sights of those there to witness it, the mournful groaning of a structure losing its strength became near deafening, and the black spire closest to the throne room slowly began to topple straight onto the castle. 

The sound of that spire breaking across the ruined stronghold broke Aurora’s heart. It was a sound of defeat.

She cried out and immediately broke into a run despite her exhaustion, but she was caught around the waist by Phillip and pulled back away from the clouds of dust that buffeted up and concealed the castle from view.

“No!” She yelled, struggling valiantly in his hold. “Father’s in there! Udo! The fairies!”

“The castle will be a death trap, Aurora,” Phillip warned her, his voice flat but clearly shaken. “We have to keep breaking through towards the river. These people can’t stay here any longer. We must go!”

He was right. Of course he was. Their task was to evacuate as many people from the city as they could, and the sooner they could break free of the Feth Fiadha, the better. Even if it agonised her to turn her back on the castle now half-destroyed by a terrible explosion, she did so after a moment of collecting herself. Her father was strong. Udo was strong. They would get the others to safety. They were alright. They _had_ to be alright. 

The tears in her eyes felt as hot as lava. Nearly blinded by them, Aurora furiously wiped them away and pushed her way through the rabble to find her way to the southern road, holding her sword aloft in the hopes that others would take notice. Around her, the faeries began to swoop about to throw off the last remnants of the monsters trickling in from the rooftops and dark allies, while the tree warriors and smaller fairies herded the humans closer to Aurora and towards the promised safety ahead.

The road was not as safe as she had hoped.

A pair of banshees manifested before them in swirls of black and green. One of them held a large pot which it was using to pour some sort of liquid onto the cobbles. Around the square, more of those horrible ghouls were doing the same thing, spilling that strange-smelling substance across the roofs and fences and streets. Banshees holding the more familiar dark lanterns held those flames up as if to get a look at the large group amassed there - and then they flung the lanterns down, breaking them across stone and slate.

Whatever the liquid they spilled was, it ignited at once. 

Aurora cried out. The heat was immediately unbearable as a wall of fire burst up from the road. She stumbled back against Phillip and turned, aghast to see that the fire was rapidly spreading across the strategically built circle of a flammable substance. They were being trapped, she realised with horror. The flames climbed higher and higher. They roared like dragons. Like monsters. It was one beast that a blessed sword would not be able to defeat.

The fire tore up into the mist. Impenetrable walls of it surrounded the square in every direction. Aurora heard the terrified screams and cries of the humans and the nervous chatter of fairies. Phillip held onto her from behind, his breath ragged by her ear. Now more than ever, she was truly afraid. She wanted her parents, but they couldn’t be there to make things right. 

“Keep going!” She called, fighting to be heard over the roar of the flames. Her voice was raspy and painful, for she breathed in hot smoke with every breath. “We keep fighting! We find a way through! Winged fairies, carry away all the humans that you can!”

The strongest faeries tried to quell the fire with their wings, but no sooner was a wall of it brought down, it was replaced. Others found themselves beseeched by desperate mothers with their young crying children. Taking the little ones into their arms, the desert fae climbed up into the swirling darkness of the smoke. Meanwhile, the few water sprites present tried to use the broken fountain to their advantage, pulling water from the pipes underneath the ground to create torrents aimed at the base of the flames. At the very least, it kept the smoke out of Aurora’s eyes long enough that she could engage with a band of fiery devils.

The fight was never ending. Whenever a foe was destroyed or freed of Tech Duinn’s corruption, they were immediately replaced with another. Aurora’s strength was beginning to fade fast. All too many blows knocked her clean off her feet, and it became harder and harder to pull herself upright with each fall.

But she got up. Every time, she found a way to stand and swing her blade, even if she was losing any sense of what her numb hands were doing. 

Outside of the burning circle, the ruined castle and its grounds fell eerily quiet.

* * *

The first thing Diaval became aware of was an intense ringing in his ears.

It was obnoxiously loud. One of his ears was throbbing and seemed to have fallen deaf. 

His consciousness stirred and emerged from the very edge of where it had been teetering indecisively near a precipice. It favoured wakefulness, though perhaps contemplated its decision when it became able to acknowledge the pain burning across his entire body. He had fallen and bounced off a good many pillars of rock, and now he couldn’t so much as twitch without soreness lancing through his limbs and back.

The coppery tang of blood was unpleasant on this human tongue. He coughed it painfully out of his mouth. Opening his eyes, he saw the ceiling of the throne room high above him in the darkness, framed by the cracked remnants of the floor that had caved in to the mysterious depths below. If not for the small fires burning across the rubble around him, he wouldn’t have been able to see anything at all.

Water was spilling in from crumbling walls. Diaval lay in a small pool of it. The coolness served to ease the terrible ache of his limbs somewhat, though he knew he could not linger there forever. Fortunate enough to have been spared the weight of heftier pieces of fallen rubble, he clawed his way out of the water and remained stretched out across smooth stone as he took a moment to recover.

_Queen Helga IV of Wyckpon_

_Her soul flies on to Golden Halls_

_Where she may feast beside Wodan_

_Death is only the beginning._

He stared at the words carved into the flat ground beneath him. It took him a few moments to realise that he was lying directly on top of a tomb. Gulping, he looked about and realised the chamber beneath the throne room was full of them, some of them bearing grand statues standing tall or lying prone. Before him, a fierce woman memorialised in stone with two wolves sat at her feet stared down at his sorry form. She reminded him at once of Mera.

Mera … where was she? Udo? Yuka?

Diaval used the statue to help pull himself up to his feet. The world span. The ringing in his ears intensified and throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Clinging on, he tried to gain his bearings and seek out any evidence of the others, fearing the worst.

Among the blurred, burning flames and the smoke, an angel emerged. Pale and glowing resplendently, white wings extended. Its dark halo grew from its head in the shape of … horns?

“Diaval. There you are,” a deep, warm voice uttered, and Diaval had to strain to hear it.

“Udo? Is that you?” He croaked. His voice was muffled to his own ears.

“Yes. Are you hurt?”

Diaval was filled with relief - but then a sore, sharp suspicion reminded him of its presence as well as a sharpened blade. Wynne had been near him mere moments ago. She had been stood right in front of him, tightly holding onto his wrist and emerging from the countenance of Prince Pioden. Wynne could be anyone she wanted and he had been foolish enough to believe her terrible replication of one that was a friend.

Udo warily drew closer. Startled, Diaval immediately took several steps back. His ankle thudded against a lump of rubble and he lost his balance in the grog, landing heavily down onto the Cumbrian Torch tied to his back. Slightly winded, he gasped and peered up once more towards the ceiling looming above. There, stood upon the broken floor of the throne room, was the white raven. It watched in silence, its head cocked to one side. Curious.

“Get up, Diaval,” Udo commanded, though there was still a warmth to his voice. “We must leave at once. The creatures that prefer to haunt crypts are not the kind we should face.”

Still cautious, Diaval dragged himself back a little way and then stood shakily to his feet, keeping his gaze pinned on the shape of Udo ahead. 

“Where’s Yuka? Is he -“

“Yuka is just fine. He is tending to Mera. Come.”

“Wynne is nearby. She disguised herself as Pio!”

Udo’s fine features fell grave. “Then she must be strong indeed if I could not detect her glamour. It seems the Feth Fiadha does more than pathe a road for the dead. We must keep our wits about us. Come, now.”

Treading slowly through the pool of water, Diaval approached and subtly sniffed at the air a bit, detecting that the faerie indeed possessed the scent of the real Udo. Still, Diaval was careful to keep a small distance between them as they made their way across heaps of rubble and small fires.

Most of the tombs were ruined by the explosion. Statues were missing limbs and some were obliterated out of existence. Worse was the presence of human remains that had been blasted from the sanctity of the walls and floor of the dark crypt, bones and pieces of armour and once beloved possessions scattered across the ground. Among the remains of her ancestors was Queen Mera, her expression flat as she stared at the ruin around her. She was sat leaning against Yuka, who was unharmed save for a few cuts and bruises.

There was a strong scent of blood on the air. Diaval quickly approached and his heart dropped when he saw the severe injury that Mera nursed: her right arm was missing from the elbow down. The bloodied and burnt stump of her arm glistened in the firelight. The faeries had tightly tied some cloth to her upper arm, though the injury was still bleeding profusely.

“We must fly her to Maleficent,” Udo said, kneeling down beside her and touching a hand to her clammy brow. To his surprise, however, Mera grabbed him suddenly with her remaining hand as life returned to her eyes.

“You’ll do what’s best for the prince, you oversized _turkey_. Oh, I didn’t mean that. If you must do me one last favour at all, it’ll be to find my son. Don’t let that witch touch a hair on his head, or I’ll never rest easily! I’ll kill her myself!”

With that, the queen grimaced and pushed herself away from Yuka, rising unsteadily to her feet. Her charcoal-grey frock was laden with water and blood, but she moved earnestly forwards with a steely determination, even if her skin was near enough turning the same colour as her attire. 

“Diaval!” She proclaimed mightily, as if just remembering that he was there. It was as though nothing had happened at all when she firmly clasped her hand on his shoulder, wavering precariously. “Who in this world has Wynne hurt most? All of us here. We’ll avenge Wickpon. All of us together!”

“All of us? Your arm’s off! We can fly you to Maleficent before the dead get the royal blood they’re brayin’ for.”

“I’ll die before the people I love get trampled on by this band of stinking cadavers! Pio is out there! My people are fighting for themselves! I will defend Wickpon until my last breath, Diaval of the Moors, for this kingdom of mine is undying, standing tall for centuries on end. She will not crumble under my rule. Now, turn into a beast worthy of a warrior and carry me to the fight!”

Torn, Diaval watched her with grave concern. Without Maleficent’s help, she would surely die, and he considered going against her wishes and carrying her all the way to the encampment somewhere near the river. If it meant saving the life of a friend, it was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it?

Mera saw his great reluctance. Her brown eyes softened a little, the strength of diamonds diminishing just enough to allow something of the Mera he knew through. She reached for the back of his neck and pulled him down so that their heads could meet: a show of friendship and true camaraderie, her forehead pressed firmly against the cool metal of his helm. Despite her evident pain, she smiled, and for a moment it seemed as though all the troubles of the world could simply fade into forgotten memory.

“There was a time I was the future of this kingdom, and now that privilege falls to the one you saved from Breoslaigh. The two of you were meant to find each other. Maybe it sounds foolish, but I believe it. Take me to the fight and then use those wings of yours to find my son. He so wanted to see you again. He was always without a true father, you see.”

Diaval’s throat was thick - whether with blood or emotion or a mixture of the two, it was difficult to tell. He thought he might ruin the moment by purging the contents of his stomach up onto the queen’s scorched boots. Thankfully, he managed to hold it back and deliberate quickly, still fighting the urge not to go against Mera’s wishes entirely and fly her all the way to Maleficent. 

It seemed it would take a miracle to be able to help everyone. They had been a little short on miracles, lately. Perhaps it wasn’t miracles at all that could see one through to greener pastures, but sheer hope and force of will. The strength simply to _try_. That was all Diaval could do in wake of Mera’s wishes: to try and hope that things would work out for the best, for without that hope, it was difficult to see the path forwards.

And so, at his friend’s request, he transformed. It was something new, a creature that he had only heard about in stories of winged shield-maidens and beer-guzzling gods, a magical creature that possessed a great capacity for centuries-worth of knowledge. He turned into a winged horse as black as the deepest night, feathers in his long, bloodied mane and firelight in the pitch-black of his eyes. His wings felt magnificently strong. So much so that it filled him with a renewed strength, even as the world continued to spin and his sore body throbbed. 

Mera’s eyes positively lit up in unbridled joy. Retrieving her axe from a startled Yuka, she stormed back over to Diaval and clambered up onto his back when he bowed low.

And the shadows around them stirred.

Magical creatures were strange things to become. Unnatural though he may have been, Diaval was still a raven at heart. He knew raven words and ways, how they connected with the world. Turning into an innately magical animal was always a bizarre and taxing experience, for they were creatures so deeply tuned with nature and the magics at work that he was always left feeling confused and vaguely useless in his lack of skill with such things. A winged horse of legend was no exception. He could sense things that he had not been able to sense before - things lurking in the Beyond, entities that were at home among the bones of the dead, able to make themselves tangible now that the Feth Fiadha granted it. As always, Udo was right. They were not alone.

And the creatures of the darkness were faster than he ever could have imagined. For a split second, Diaval saw a long, shadowy figure covered in a tattered black cloak that suddenly felt to have been there the whole time, lingering in the unseen places. A foul stench emitted from the open hood of its cloak, through which its undoubtedly wretched features could not be seen. Before Diaval could even spread his great wings, the terrifying creature lunged and he saw the glint of sharp metal before a white hot pain tore through his head.

His cry of pain emerged as a ghostly whinny. It was a sharp, unbearable agony. He knew without seeing his own reflection that the monster had blinded him in his left eye having torn straight through it. Rearing back, he beat his wings and then clumsily ascended up towards the great hole in the ceiling over their heads. Somehow, after gaining some control over the strength of his wings, Diaval carried them both back into the throne room.

He could only see out of the right side of his head, but it was enough. The throne room was in utter ruins. The beautiful black pillars were mostly fallen, and so was the arched ceiling. Some of the walls had toppled to expose other chambers or even the outside world. What he could see of the world beyond was, to his great terror, seemingly bathed in smoke in flame. He could hear cries of terror, not just from humans but from fairies, too. What emerged within him then was not fear, but a terrible, even primordial rage that struggled to contain itself within his current shape.

They would not make it to the fight.

Creatures followed them from the pits of the crypt. It was those mysterious robed figures, those merciless spectres, rising from the depths like leaves on a tainted wind. Diaval tried to run past them out of the fallen chamber, but he found his way blocked by one robed figure wielding a longbow made of sinewy bone. The arrow it nocked, too, seemed to be carved from a femur, slightly curved but no less deadly.

Upon his back, Mera struck at any spectre that made their approach and destroyed them. Udo and Yuka used their magic to create great blades of ice that pierced the robes of the creatures and sent their souls into the approaching mist. Diaval kicked at their enemies with his hooves, snorting viciously in an attempt to terrify the monster with the bow, but who could ever put fear into the hearts of that which was already dead?

He heard the whistle of the arrow soaring through the air. He watched it as if it moved as slowly as a feather. In an effort to protect Mera, he reared up again and concealed her with one of his wings, but the aim of the spectre was eerily precise - the arrow cut through his flesh as easily as parchment and struck its mark. The sickening thud of arrow meeting flesh was louder and more devastating than any explosion. 

And so was the voice that drifted from the hood of the robed archer as the rest of the world fell devastatingly silent. It was a voice that Diaval knew.

_Such stubbornness will be the end of those you love. Accept what is yours._

Another arrow was nocked. This one was aimed in his direction. He didn’t realise it until one of Udo’s blades cut through the arms of the monster and sent the bow clattering to the ground, sparing him a fate that the vengeful spirits seemed to think was entirely deserved.

As silent as shadows, the other spectres descended back down into the safety of the crypts and disappeared, and they would find themselves sealed in when the two tundra fae used their magic to seal the hole torn in the floor with solid ice.

Disorientated, Diaval paced about the throne room. He couldn’t bring himself to transform. Mera had asked him to carry her into the battle she so fiercely desired, and it didn’t seem right that he suddenly couldn’t do what she asked of him. She embodied a long line of warriors that defended their home against all odds. Such a thing was a great honour. It wasn’t fair that a warrior, a queen, could be struck down before her due time.

It wasn’t fair. 

Before the dais of the broken throne, Diaval bowed down and allowed Mera to slip from his back. Though the bone arrow pierced through her chest, she still lived. With her axe firmly clasped in her hand, she powered up the steps and gazed upon the dark throne of Wickpon, the foundations of its seat still intact, and she lowered herself down upon it with all the grace she still had the strength for.

Her breath was lost. Her skin was grey. She held her axe to her chest, gazing out across the fallen throne room and the ruins of her kingdom beyond. At the sight of it, her clammy face creased and tears built in her dark eyes.

Diaval transformed back into his man-shape. At once, he was struck with deep feelings of sorrow and grief. Anger in wake of his failure to give the queen what she had desired. Denial crowned it all, wielding the orb and sceptre, as he hurried up the dais and knelt down, taking Mera’s hand into his. She didn’t deserve death, so why was it happening? _Was_ it happening? If he had just been faster, if he hadn’t let himself get waylaid by Wynne, if he had just …

Mera’s eyes met his, and just like that, her pains and sorrows seemed to melt away. She smiled again, and it was soft with acceptance. 

“Maybe death isn’t as glorious as the stories say,” she rasped, squeezing his hand in hers. “Maybe I did my good deed already. Kindness is an eternal chain - but I think you already know that, don’t you? I helped you, and then you saved my son and brought him home. The soul and future of Wickpon still lives even if our kingdom falls. I can feel it, Diaval.” The queen wheezed, and her face paled yet further. Every word she spoke sounded like a battle in its own right. “I think … all the kindness you have shown, raven … to all the people you have met, I think it will … If kindness is a chain, you will see your dues. It was an honour to know you, even if you didn’t like my infamous gin. It was an honour to know the Moors and all the handsome fae of the world. Now …”

She froze, her eyes widening a little. Still, she did not pull her gaze away from Diaval for a moment. 

There were things he perhaps should have said, though he would not think of them until it was too late. There were no words even a raven could speak as a dreadful realisation set in. Death was quick. It was vicious. It had no care who a person was or whether they deserved it. It was its job to take, and take it did. All Diaval could do was kneel there with a sob stuck in his throat, watching as that shadow descended down to claim one that was dear to him. He shook his head, not to refute her words but to refuse the undeserved fate looming over the throne.

“Save my son,” Mera insisted. Blood crackled in her voice. “Be his wings if you could not be mine. After all … you corvids … should probably stick together. Keep on, Diaval … this light of yours, it will save us yet.”

He reached behind him and felt the metal of the Cumbrian Torch. It did not comfort him. 

He nodded at her. It was all he could do. Assured by it, Mera’s smile broadened, but only for a moment. It was slowly pulled from her face, slipping away as easily as that last, strained breath was stolen from her lungs. The queen of Wickpon fell back against that ancient throne and was still, all her good deeds and glorious battles falling into history alongside her.

The world would be a quieter place without her. A world that suddenly felt far less safe than it ever had.

Diaval was without words. They were caught in his throat along with his breath. Tears burned at his good eye. He had seen death before, of course he had, but it had never felt like this. The passing of his own raven family had happened without his presence, for it was the nature of ravens to part ways and venture off into the world. As a man beholden to the death of a good friend and a member of his family, of the unkindness he had found himself a part of over the years, it tore at his very soul. It filled him with an unspeakable sorrow, and then that more familiar rage which beckoned at him like a flaming siren.

Mori’ka had done this. His was the voice that had sounded to Diaval from the hood of a ghost. He had stolen into the mind of that creature and taken control of its weak will, just as he had once taken control of Diaval’s.

It was desperate. Predictable, even. Diaval knew what Mori’ka wanted. He wanted that grief and pain and anger, he wanted to use it to control the people that he hurt. He wanted people to snap and do terrible things, just as he had done, but the only one that deserved Diaval’s contempt was him, the spirit that hid behind the faces of others. The spirit with all that blood on his talons. He could invoke all the sorrow he wanted, he could stoke the flames of rage until a dragon was born from the its hellish fires, but he was truly blind if he thought Diaval would allow the death of a friend to control him. Mera deserved better than to be a tool. Aurora, Maleficent, and the people of the world deserved better than a dragon that could not control its own fire.

Never again. 

Diaval picked up a wooden pipe from the steps and held it in the palm of his hand for a moment. He would remember the smell of tobacco for as long as he lived. He would remember Mera’s kind smile and her iron resolve, always. Though she’d not had the death she had wanted, she had fought for her kingdom and her son until the end, and he was inspired by the enormous bravery she had shown when faced with the end of her kingdom as she knew it.

But, no - she’d said that Wickpon would live on. Her son was out there. Aurora and Maleficent, who were fighting vigilantly to protect their allies, were still out there. There were people still fighting for their lives. The battle was not done.

Rising to his feet, he silently placed the wooden pipe on Mera’s lap and looked at her for a final time, showing his respects with a bow of his head. Udo and Yuka, too, came forwards and bowed their heads, no doubt greatly affected by the loss of a great ally, the leader of a kingdom that enthusiastically welcomed faerie kind within its walls.

“A part of the tundra fae dies with her this night,” Udo murmured into the silence. “Few of these souls can say they died with a smile. She always said you were the blessing sent by the lights in the sky those years ago.”

Diaval felt nothing in response to those words. Slowly, he turned away from the throne and headed back down the stairs, feeling the beginnings of magic beginning to stir warmly between his fingers and toes.

“If I was any kind of blessin’ to this place, she’d still be alive,” he said flatly, closing his good eye by manner of concentration. “I can do at least one thing she asked of me. I can find Pio. Will you take her back to Maleficent? If any more have fallen, they deserve to lie together, I think.”

“It would be unwise to venture out there alone,” Udo insisted sagely. “I understand your rage, but to let it get the better of you -“

“It won’t. Never again, ‘cause that’s not me. It’s him. If ever anger gets the better of me, it’ll be when I’m stood in front of that demon again. Besides …” he nodded towards the world that burned outside of the walls of the castle. “I’ll not leave my family to that. There’s somethin’ to be learnt from dragons like Drugian the Red. They’re misunderstood creatures. Kind of like ravens. And like ravens, they protect what’s theirs.” He paused, and the breeze of that old magic brushed against his cheeks, fighting away the encroaching green mist. “They finish what others start.”

In that ruined chamber of falling stone and newborn grief, a black dragon was given life. It climbed from its confines and stood upon the crumbling roof of the castle, gazing out towards the wide ring of towering flames within the city below. Through the falling snow, through the mist and the fire, he could see golden armour glinting in the light.


	22. A Matter of Life and Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams in word count*
> 
> Apologies for the long wait! A lot has happened since I started writing this chapter. Also, it’s huge but I couldn’t bring myself to split this one. It was exceptionally difficult to write, both due to content and outside matters. As always, please take note of tags, and apologies for any typos or mistakes or anything else, I will hopefully get time to look over it again soon.
> 
> Hope you guys are all well!

“It’s him,” Phillip murmured warily, but Aurora barely heard him.

Atop the remnants of the castle’s broken entrance hall stood a dragon, its enormous and dark silhouette terrifying within the green of the Feth Fiadha. In such a position, a single stream of fire could be breathed right over the fairy cavalcade and the humans gathered in the square, destroying them all and rendering their efforts to escape in vain. They were trapped. Frozen and frightened beyond belief, Aurora watched as the shape of that massive creature grew as it made its formidable approach.

The gust of wind that came with a powerful stroke of its wings almost knocked them all of their feet. The great flames surrounding them danced in the gusts as if revelling in a dragon’s presence, bowing at its monstrous claws - but the dragon was not there to exacerbate the fires wrought by the banshees, no matter the fears that tried to turn Aurora’s thoughts to the worst. When its great, horned head emerged from the smoke and flames, the very picture of a demon emerging from a gateway to Hell, Aurora was not afraid. 

She was comforted. 

One of the dragon’s eyes was closed and bleeding, but the other was alight with a soft, amber glow. It looked at them all, fierce but familiar in the warmth and concern behind it. Aurora knew at once that this was not a dragon influenced by the presence of Mori’ka, but a dragon that was her father and her father alone, and he had come to save them in their time of need. That great eye met hers, and she managed a smile in response to Diaval’s chuff of greeting. 

She struggled away from Phillip’s hold. Suddenly renewed with energy, she ran to the muzzle of the black wyvern and hugged it - not only as a show of relief, but for the benefit of the fairies and humans watching so that they would know that this was a creature on their side and not to be harmed. However, it seemed that the humans of Wickpon recognised Diaval even in such a ferocious shape, for his presence was not met with screams of terror, but with cheers.

Diaval spread his wings. With their great expanse, he smothered many of the towering flames to the ground. He flicked out his massive tail and used it to stomp out the fire blocking the way to the street that led to the city gates. In the shadow of his rage, monsters of all shapes and sizes trembled and ran away to avoid being burnt or trampled, though many were released of their bodies in his endeavour to terrify the dead into receding.

The way was clear, but the tragedy of the invasion was not over. 

Aurora grabbed Phillip’s hand. She pulled him hurriedly over to the forefront of the gathering so that they might lead the way down the slippery, cobbled road towards safety. However, before she could try to find the mounts that had carried them into the city, the crowd of humans and fairies solemnly parted to make way for a small group of fae: Udo, his son Yuka, Borra, and a small handful of tundra fae bearing something between them that seemed to cause great upset to the humans in particular.

The young queen’s heart sank. Exhaustion set in all over again, weighing her slight body down within her heavy armour. 

The fae carried the fallen queen of Wickpon. A great ally and a greater friend. 

Aurora had only met Mera once, but she’d harboured a great fondness for her, not only for what she had done to help her father but for her enormous kindness and acceptance when it came to fairykind. Her welcoming nature and big heart was no more, sought after and removed from the mortal realm by Mori’ka and his dealings with Tech Duinn. Her devastating injuries were laid bare before her people, and it was clear to all that she had died fiercely fighting for her kingdom, ever the mighty warrior of the north. She who had offered sanctum for all within many storms. 

Nearby, further on down the road, the wooden sign of The Horse’s Head creaked within the mournful silence. 

Tears stung at Aurora’s eyes. She was horrified by all the blood and the sudden nature of death, but mostly saddened for the loss that Wickpon was enduring through no fault of their own. She was sad for Prince Pioden, yet unseen, for having lost his mother, a pain which she had known and suffered for a short time. She was sad for Diaval, Udo, and the tundra fae, for they had lost a dear friend. 

And then she felt a great anger. King John had almost died at the hands of Mori’ka’s former influence in Perceforest. She herself had almost been slain by the fire of her own father. Merin, the leader of the forest fae, was murdered in cold blood. And now a queen of the allied kingdoms was lost, her castle nearly fallen, a move clearly meant to cause unrest and terror in the enemies of the demon presiding far away.

It could not be so. While Mera’s death was undoubtedly a tragedy that would haunt the kingdom for years to come, Mori’ka was truly maddened if he thought that they would let it end their rebellion against his growing power. 

Aurora looked at the fae. Their heads were bowed. Even Borra, infamous for his usual disdain of humans, took a moment to show his respects. Perhaps he did so for his brother-in-arms, Udo, who was struck with sorrow, frosty trails cutting through soot on his cheeks where tears had quietly fallen. Aurora thought to say something, but felt as though in that moment, it was not her place to do so; the tundra fae had found homes in the mountains and plains near Wickpon and were welcomed in the city, leading to a friendship between Mera and Udo in a goal to protect the people and fairies in the north.

“I’m so sorry,” was all that felt right to say. Her words were coarse with fatigue but no less filled with sincerity.

“Sorrow shall come, as it always does,” Udo murmured sagely, raising his proud head. “This kingdom has much to grieve. Let us ensure that these demons take no more from us. Onwards, friends. These friendships that seem severed are never truly gone, for these experiences and the love we have shared are eternal for as long as we remember those that have been taken from this world. For them, this fight will not be in vain. For them, we carry on until we have won.”

“Until we have won!” Borra followed savagely, beating his chest with his fist. The other fae copied him, striking their chests and stomping their feet in a show of utmost defiance. “His fire is nothing! His will is nothing! He’ll take nothing more from us!”

The fae hollered their assent and immediately began regrouping. The humans that couldn’t fight were assembled into groups and protected by the fairies. More groups returned from the castle, the survivors within having been saved, and they joined the gathering with evident relief, the fairies flocking to Aurora to loudly notify her of their success. Returning tundra fae used their wings and magic to pacify more of the flames burning nearby.

Aurora felt Phillip’s hand in hers. She looked at him, and his face was blurred through her hot tears. Hastily, she wiped them away and took in his fair face, dirty and bloodied but alive with determination. How she loved his resolve, his need to rebel against all that was wrong. She loved his strength. Most of all, she loved that he looked at her as an equal, even in the midst of battle when danger lurked around every corner. His eyes were bright within the smudges of dirt there. Saddened, but bright.

“Let’s get them to safety, Aurora,” he said calmly, though looked a bit unnerved when the black shuck that had carried him into the city emerged from the crowds. It was not long followed by the brown bear, which grunted and waited patiently nearby.

The queen nodded, then looked up at her father, who was hanging over the cavalcade protectively with his wings spread, shielding them from the smoke and any monsters that might have dared approach. That great, serpentine head was bowed, and the eye that she could see was glazed with sadness. Her heart ached for him, but there was a glimmer of something else, too. Pride, perhaps, in that his nature was stronger than the dangerous instinct of a dragon. Stronger even than Mori’ka’s will. He’d won a small battle of his own, one that he likely hadn’t even acknowledged in wake of Mera’s death.

Silent, Aurora mounted the brown bear and led slow march back through the city. More survivors joined them as they went, either from the alleys or plucked from the rooftops of burning homes. The fairies worked to smother the flames and right any wrongs they saw around them, but what they could see was surely only the tip of the iceberg. Wickpon was in ruins. She lamented as she paved the way through it, her tender heart laden with the pain of those around her. 

Few monsters pestered them from that point onwards. Clearly the Moors’ had put on enough of a fight to keep any dangerous creatures at bay. That, or the presence of a dragon at the rear of the cavalcade terrified them into inaction. It led to an eerie silence within the mist, one made all the more potent when they left its walls and were greeted by the silence of the forest ahead. 

The walk would take some time, but it seemed that the worst of the danger was over. 

That was until a shrill roar pierced through the cold night air.

It was not a sound unfamiliar to Aurora - it sounded like the call of a dragon, only there was an unearthly ring to its bellow, a song of all the sorrows and the anger of the dead. It was the morbid cry of a beast from beyond the veil, one that was lost in the confusion and uncertainty of Mori’ka’s cruel influence. It was a creature she wasn’t sure whether she could truly fear, but neither could she forget the heat of dragon’s fire and how close she had come to succumbing to it.

The ground shook with the weight of great footsteps. Slowly, red, glowing eyes emerged from within the fog, followed by a body that was nearly identical to the black dragon at the rear, save for its smaller size and the deathly pale of its scales. The creature crashed its sharp teeth together and snarled agitatedly at the sounds of fear that emerged from the crowd, rocking on its wings.

Oddly, it seemed uncertain of what it wanted to do. It seemed ready to charge or breathe fire, but seemed equally likely to turn tail and fly away. It was frightened, Aurora realised. It was alone there in the mist, forsaken by even the dead. Quickly, she reached over and stayed Phillip’s hand when he made to draw his sword.

“It’s one of us,” she said with certainty, though her heart sank when she heard the approach of another enormous dragon. Her own father, apparently more comfortable in such a shape than he had been for a long time, stomped around the humans and faeries until he could face the white dragon himself.

Surprisingly, he was not quite as receptive to the fetch’s obvious distress. He snapped his maw at the creature in warning, using his greater size to loom over it, a threatening noise rumbling deep in his armoured chest. The fetch shrank down and hissed up at him, and fire glowed within the darkness of its throat. Apparently thinking better of it, it instead huffed and quickly opened its wings to take to the sky, beating away clouds of the Feth Fiadha and allowing a fleeting but glorious sight of the river ahead.

It was the path that they would follow, but the white raven would not join them. It soared away, disappearing into the unknown. Left there to peer at the sky as the mist began to fall in, Diaval took a step after it, then whined and looked at Aurora with his good eye, fear and determination co-existing within draconic features. 

She was safe there with the Wild Hunt and the humans of Wickpon. The river would take them to Maleficent and the others, and there they could rest. It seemed that Diaval knew it, and did not intend to follow them, either. Whatever it was that he wanted or needed to do, he would not bring Aurora to face it alongside him, and though it angered her in part, she understood. She was a parent, too, and she longed to spare Riordan all the horrors of the world, for they were not his burdens to bear.

A lump formed in her throat when a very large nose wormed closer to her. Diaval rested his head in the snow, peering up at her in a manner almost playful. When he snorted, clouds of snow and frost spurted over her and Phillip, positively covering them with it.

And then he left, using his wings to clear the way to the river as he did. 

Aurora pressed her lips into a firm line. She had to remember that she was not as alone as she felt. In fact, it was quite a ridiculous notion to feel alone at all when she had the Wild Hunt and an entire kingdom at her back. She had her husband at her side, the brave prince who looked at her with all the reverence in the world. Her son was waiting for her at their wonderful home deep in the Moors, and soon she would return to him. 

There was a prince out there that needed Diaval’s help.

Onwards she went.

* * *

At the temporary encampment by the sea, any assault on behalf of the Feth Fiadha were short-lived. Maleficent’s kin had suffered an increase in banshees and other rancid monsters, but then, as though the forces of Tech Duinn were called elsewhere, the numbers slowly began to diminish, and the world fell into silence. 

Maleficent did not speak of her concern. She remained vigilant, however, wondering if the silence meant a larger attack was forthcoming. She patrolled the encampment and its borders, keeping a close eye on the precious lives gathered within or protecting it from the outskirts. However, nothing came. No monsters, no terrible gods. Just the bracing wind, the falling snow, and the continued uncertainty of what was happening beyond the mists where her family fought. 

They waited. And they waited. Perhaps something was looking kindly upon them through the mist, after all, for no terrible beasts emerged to challenge them. Regardless, Maleficent stood still for what felt like hours, her fierce gaze set upon the woods.

And then all of a sudden, rising from the silence, there came a strange but beautiful song. It sounded quietly from far away over the tops of the trees and through the shadows within. It was clear and true, enough so that it was certainly coming from a living creature, though the tone was odd in that it sounded both human and not all at once. A lovely, tinkling sound interspersed with something … stronger, and far more supernatural than anything a mere human could produce.

It was strangely comforting. Gathering her wits about her, Maleficent ignored it, particularly upon realising that nobody else seemed to be able to hear the sound.

At long last, her ears detected the early sounds of a large group of people approaching in the distance. She could hear low voices in the wind and felt the heavy tread of their feet through the ground. Feeling both elation and panic all at once, she turned and quickly headed towards the river and followed it to wait a small distance from the others, scouring the mists for any sight of those she loved.

The first to emerge was Aurora, then Phillip, then fairies, and then the humans of Wickpon that had followed them.

Poor Aurora appeared exhausted. However, upon spying Maleficent, the very same relief and elation that her mother felt lit up her eyes. With a tired smile, she quickly descended from the bear that carried her and headed straight for the faerie, embracing her in a tight hug.

“Mother,” she exclaimed, her voice ragged with emotion. “You’re alright.”

“Yes,” Maleficent said at once, as though such a thing should have been obvious. However, overjoyed that her daughter was alive and well, she swiftly returned the embrace and held the precious girl as closely to her as their armour would permit. “You’re safe now, Beastie. We had something of a run in with the Morrigan, but now she is one arm short and making a nuisance of herself elsewhere, no doubt.”

She looked up in time to see Lickspittle take aim and quickly fly off in the direction of the beach, hooting with joy. Before she could intervene in whatever nefarious plans the news might have inspired, Phillip approached and gratefully slid off the back of the black shuck.

“Maleficent! It’s good to see you well,” he greeted, lifting his head in an attempt to combat the steady flow of blood from his nose. “Don’t mind this. A goblin was swinging a club around.”

“Ah! The noble Prince Phillip bested by a goblin! It’s alright, I won’t tell any of the Ulsteadians, though your father may well hear of it.” With a short smile, Maleficent winked and turned to guide her daughter towards the safety of the outskirts of the Feth Fiadha. “Come out of the mist and I’ll be able to heal you.”

Maleficent walked slowly with Aurora. Others moved ahead, and it was only then that she saw not everyone had made it out of the ordeal with their lives. Happiness, it seemed, would pave the way towards a more familiar pain. She watched in silence as still bodies were swiftly carried into shelter, and she felt in the air the void where life energies had departed the world, an emptiness that seeped into her, too, as she imagined the breadth of the pain of loved ones.

“It was worse than I thought,” Aurora croaked tearfully. “I didn’t know it would be this bad, mother. It was even worse than before. There were so many monsters.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Maleficent’s tone was flat. Grief-stricken and enraged by what she had seen, she turned to Aurora and placed a gentle hand on her cheek. “For our efforts, many human lives were saved in turn.” Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help the note of bitterness that crept into her words. “I hope Queen Mera does not forget what was given to save her people.”

Aurora took a deep breath, a clear pain emerging.

“She’s gone.”

Stunned by that, Maleficent stared at Aurora as her emotions riled like storm clouds within. She had not known Mera well, but she was undoubtedly a good friend of the family, always jovial and smiling and wholeheartedly welcoming towards fairykind. A diamond among humans, indeed, and now she was gone as swiftly as a candle blown out by an unseen presence.

She quickly glanced about the passing crowd, and sighed.

“I suppose your father has gone to find the errant prince?”

“I think so,” Aurora murmured, wiping her eyes. “The wraith appeared but didn’t seem to want to fight us. He followed it somewhere along the river.”

“He isn’t far, Beastie. We will find him if he doesn’t make his way back.”

After a short nod, Aurora took her mother’s hand and guided her towards the encampment ahead, sorrow and exhaustion keeping her gaze firmly on the ground.

“Mori’ka did this,” the young queen spoke angrily. “Mera. Merin. All those humans. They died to his hate. How can somebody be so cruel, mother? How can anybody be so evil? How are we supposed to recover from all this?”

“We will recover, because that is what they would want us to do, Aurora. The Moors … we shall grieve for those who bravely fought, but we  _ will _ avenge them.”

“Vengeance?” Was the uncertain response. “Is that the answer to this?”

Simultaneously unnerved and proud of what she had heard, Maleficent turned, half expecting to see Diaval there in Aurora’s place - but no, it was the young, fair Queen of the Moors, who now wore armour and carried a sword and spoke as though she were her father. 

However, Aurora was not trying to question her. She was not trying to make a point. She was seeking an answer, and Maleficent debated with herself for a moment, wondering if she was truly equipped to give it. Diaval was not there to shed light on the matter, and even if he was, she feared he would begin to lose himself to doubt. The thought angered her yet further. Enraged and fearful though she was, she kept it all contained as best she could, tightening her hand about her twisting staff.

“Some people,” she spoke, her voice carefully level, “do not deserve forgiveness, darling, for the things they do are so terrible that they could never earn it. They do not deserve your hesitation or doubt, for they will use your love and kindness against you. I have seen it happen too often to begin to question what Mori’ka deserves. He was mistreated by mankind, that we know. His madness was born of a great pain and obsession. Not for one moment are we obliged to excuse the things he has done for these reasons. He has killed and hurt his way through his grief, and many will bear the scars of his actions long after he is gone. The Moors will suffer if he is allowed to survive. The humans will suffer. Perhaps it is not vengeance, then, but justice to see him fall for his crimes.”

Aurora thought about that for a moment, frowning heavily.

“Justice. Maybe he is not the only one that must answer for it. Humans must learn to mend their ways towards those who are different. Justice would be that you, father, the fairies, and your children … that our land will be left in peace and you will never suffer their hate ever again. All people should be able to live in peace and safety.” She smiled softly, then, and released her mother’s hand to begin to follow Phillip towards a gathering of fairies beyond. “I will strive to help build such a world, for I have the power to do so.”

Once Phillip’s nose was healed, they parted ways, if but for a time. Maleficent walked on to a small hill beside the river and watched over the large crowd of humans and fairies gathering below. She felt the warmth of tears on her cheek, but she did not wipe them away, too proud to do so; her grief, for once, would be seen to all. If tears could not always bring the dead back to life, they could at least honour those in her charge who had nearly given everything.

Her tears spoke of gratitude, too. Gratitude for Aurora and her sincere vow to use her power for good. Gratitude for the humans that invited fairies into their circles and made sure they were unharmed and well fed. Perhaps the world that Aurora spoke of was not quite as distant as she had thought. At least, not in this cold, forested kingdom where mountains and magic came together, united in friendship and pain.

Humans … they  _ could _ learn, it seemed. Slowly. They could also be held accountable for the things that they had done.

That strange song emerged over the forest again.

Logic told her to ignore it. She was needed among the others as their greatest sorceress and healer. However, as likely as it was that the inviting crooning beyond was a monster, she considered that there was also the chance of it coming from a creature that needed aid. A creature that was not human, perhaps nor even of the Otherworld, caught in a battle it had no part in forging. Who was she to believe that she knew what mysteries lay beyond in this unfamiliar part of the world?

Was it truly as unfamiliar as she thought?

Maleficent was not of the tundra fae - she found no home nor comfort in the snow and cold, but she found kinship in the trees and the wilds of the earth. For some time, she had been learning to stop, listen, and consider the voices and wisdom of the forests. The trees that flanked her, though dark and bleak and concealing many secrets, seemed to regard her with a comfortable silence. As though they had known her for many long years.

Like a lullaby of the Otherworld, that wild song gradually started to refine the harder that she listened. She concentrated on that sound and that sound alone in the same way she would attune herself to the trees and the animals, and the more she listened, the more the song began to sound like both the sweet trill of a bird and the calming hum of a mother at a child’s bedside.

Maleficent wasn’t sure how she knew what such a thing might sound like.

The Feth Fiadha was silent. The battle was over. Fairies and humans patrolled the recovering people by the river. Perhaps, for a moment, Maleficent would not be needed.

Drawn by a mixture of curiosity and hope, the faerie slipped back into the shadows of the woods and silently away. She did not fear becoming lost among them; the wilds were not her enemy, and the strong yet gentle song that called to her did not cease, allowing her keen ears to guide her through the dark, emerald mists that drifted quietly past her. Though intrigued, she was not foolish about the matter, sure to keep her staff held taut in both hands as she manuerved the place.

As though time worked differently within such an ancient place, it didn’t seem long until she was stood at the base of an enormous, carven stone, one of many that guarded the oldest part of the woods. The fairy ring, the stones of which were old and worn, perhaps loosely depicting the faces of ravens. Maleficent could feel the presence of Otherworld magic thrumming within the circle, ready to respond to her if she were to summon it. She did not, instead stepping into the frozen woodland beyond, intent on seeing the truth and not a mere vision.

When arriving in Wickpon, she had spied an ancient monument set within the snow, a pyramid of stone with a statue of a raven ensconced on top with the source of the river flowing from its open beak. A small field of glowing tomb-bloom flowers peeped up from the white, glittering blanket of the ground. Tiny frost fairies fluttered about them here and there, tending to the graves of their fallen. Maleficent was respectfully silent as she moved through the sacred site, careful not to disturb anything from its place.

Even when she saw a faerie sitting upon the steps of the monument, she said nothing, though her heart felt to leap up into her throat.

A woman with long, dark hair and wings of deep brown sat gazing at her, humming the song that had pervaded the entire woods. Though she appeared as a faerie, it was clear she was in fact something Other: in the depths of her emerald eyes, a graceful golden light shone, a light that emerged from her very skin and encased her in a warm but powerful aura. Her form was translucent, like that of a ghost. An echo of something that once was.

Maleficent stared. She approached until she was in the other faerie’s eye-line, and the song of the phoenix came to a slow stop.

“Mother?” Was all she could think to say.

The other faerie smiled. It was not unkind, though vaguely mercurial in nature. A dark beauty radiated from the being, a velvet rose of many thorns, one that had seen death and bloomed again in another world. She stood and descended the crooked stone steps, a mischievous sort of giggle echoing about the small clearing as she did.

“No. Well … through time, perhaps. Does that disappoint you?” The stranger asked, tilting her head. “Nithe is not among the rabble of Tech Duinn. Whichever world she might have settled in, it is one very far away from here.”

Maleficent felt a surge of power at her fingers. It was a swift, habitual reaction to hurt. She was careful not to have anything of her emotions on display, however, intent on carefully watching the faerie-looking creature ahead.

“Why did you bring me here?” Maleficent demanded sternly, finding herself annoyed when her new companion smiled again, flashing her fangs. It was like peering into a mirror at her own wild, beautiful reflection, the glitter of her own gaze.

“Because there is something watching you, Maleficent. There, in the shadows. Don’t look just yet!”

Ignoring that word of advice, Maleficent spun quickly around to face the woods, a chill immediately racing up her spine. At first, she saw and heard nothing within the mist that made the trees barely visible, but then … indeed, a shape she had mistaken for a heavier blotch of that dank fog slowly shifted somewhere beyond, and for a brief second, she saw a pair of red, glowing eyes staring back at her.

Her destructive green power immediately bloomed at her hands. Without turning, she coldly addressed the spirit of the Phoenix once more.

“Have you foolishly led me into a trap?”

Seemingly without a care in the world, the Phoenix wondered - nay, floated - back into Maleficent’s sights, drifting through the air and playfully pedalling her feet. She laughed again, flicking her long hair back over her shoulder.

“I am trying to stop you straying into a trap, actually!”

“Who is that creature?”

The Phoenix sniffed at the air and pulled a slight face.

“Smells like the Lord of Death himself, Donn. He wasn’t always so bad, actually. Death is a part of existence, not a true evil. He used to let me sit on his shoulder when I was a little hatchling so I could feel like I was flying.”

Surprised by that, Maleficent was almost tempted to look away from the obscure shape watching them.

“How sweet,” she responded curtly, spreading her wings in preparation to take flight if necessary. “However, I know that the gods shunned the Phoenix. Perhaps you are the trap, or at least a mere vision granted by the fairy ring.”

The Phoenix folded her arms and sighed, swaying in the air in a manner that could only be described as impatient.

“Fine. Whatever I might be now, it doesn’t matter. I thought you might want to heed the wisdom of a voice of the past, but if you want to just dive into the mist and see what happens, well …”

“If you are such fast friends, then -“

“No, no. We  _ were  _ friends. I loved all the gods of the Otherworld, and they loved me - at least, they loved me until I grew up and they realised how powerful I was, that is. It was for the best, I think. Things were a bit tense between their realms, you see. I didn’t care for the drama of it all.”

The look to the spirit’s hollow eyes suggested that she did in fact care about the things she spoke of. Maleficent had chanced a glance towards her out of a reluctant curiosity. If the being was real, if there truly was a ghost swaying before her, then it could be no one but the very first phoenix to have graced the earth. A star given a life to live, a mind to think with. It was difficult to consider just how and why she was there to be heard millennia after her death, especially with the danger lurking beyond, though with  _ all _ things considered, it was one more unusual thing in a whole pile of unusual things.

“What does he want?” Maleficent asked when she found her words again.

The Phoenix tapped at her chin in thought, feigning nonchalance.

“His bones are here. Mori’ka, that is. The ravens took his bones from the island and buried them right here in the forest of his birth. To reclaim the foundations of his body would be the first step to rebuilding it with dark magic. It was difficult enough finding out that his soul had been released from its prison, let alone seeing the dead breach the sanctity of these woods to take his body!”

Those words were spoken with a strange lightheartedness, a sort of disconnect that only a person long dead could possess. 

“I had to do it,” Maleficent uttered firmly, still firmly watching the presumed enemy beyond. It did not seem to be moving closer. “The Phoenix Emerald was my birthright. I did not know the soul of a  _ demon _ was encased within. If I did not destroy it, the curse upon my mate would never have broken and he would be …”

“Let’s not beat around the bush,” the Phoenix suggested, raising her eyebrows, “you still would have done it, even if you had known what it would lead to. Strange, the things love makes people do!”

“I would never leave my family to  _ die _ .”

“Even if it was for the best? To save others?”

“The humans are not my responsibility!” Maleficent proclaimed with fury, the world falling into an even deeper green hue as her power flared about her, the ever present fire within encroaching on the outside world. “They have hurt and invaded my people for countless centuries, they brought my kin to the brink of extinction. That a demon chose to hurt them is no fault of mine. For my daughter, I will fight for them, but I cannot shield them from death.”

“He does come for us all. Eventually,” the Phoenix agreed. “Then why fear him, dear Maleficent? After all, there is nothing physical that stops your healing magic from working in the Feth Fiadha. If you believe you are powerless in the face of death, then that is what you will be.”

The words were spoken as though with mirth, but it didn’t soften the impact of them at all. It was a sour feeling at any time to be faced with an uncomfortable truth. Here Maleficent was, now, called into the Feth Fiadha, surrounded by the lonely emptiness that she feared so fervently, greeted by the presence of that which haunted her every waking day.

Death. 

It was as though the air was suddenly pulled from her lungs. It struck her that she was stood in the middle of a small field of tomb-bloom above the bones of fairies and even Mori’ka himself. Her hand fell to the cool metal protecting her belly, desperately seeking the reassuring pulse of life within and fearing that the cold and the misery of the place would somehow harm them - just as the world had harmed her, Aurora, and Diaval. 

“I do not fear death,” she spoke firmly, insistently, facing the looming presence beyond with all the ferocity that she could muster. 

The Phoenix floated curiously past, then landed on her feet and set the eerie glow of her eyes onto the ground between them.

“Neither did I. After all, what does a phoenix have to fear of death? Ours is a cycle unending. I look at you and it’s like peering into the water and seeing myself once more. Vibrant. Alive. Beloved by all.” The spirit no longer smiled. She knelt down and touched her hand upon the frosted earth, eventually digging her fingers into the hard soil and pulling it into her palm. “Like you, I realised I had everything to fear. I saw the one I loved crumble into a shadow of himself. Just as you did. Just as you will. I made the mistake of refusing to see his soul pass to the Otherworld, and I am here to remind you that the mistakes of the past are to be learnt from, not repeated. Welcome death into your midst, Phoenix. It’s the only way you can free your people from his tyranny.”

The notion was spoken in a manner oddly enticing. It did not take long to piece together the true meaning behind them, however, and Maleficent was no more convinced by the speech than she was convinced by the image of the Phoenix crouched there among the tomb-bloom, those beautiful eyes somehow alight with power supposedly already passed down through time.

She truly was looking at an echo, then. A memory given life. Perhaps a similar conversation had been held, once, in this very clearing in the woods: the Phoenix and Death together in one place.

Maleficent scowled and focused her attention back on the giant figure shrouded by fog before the trees. Ghastly red eyes fixed upon her in turn.

“What is it that you want?” She asked of it, listening intently to the silence of the mist and the forest. “You cannot fool me into allowing you to come close. I cannot be speaking to the spirit of the Phoenix when I am she.”

The spirit of the Phoenix - a mere illusion, Maleficent had since realised - stood, her fair face falling blank and void of life.

“I want the souls you have denied me,” she said slowly. “He promised me souls, and so many I have claimed. I want this world. I will start with those who resist the inevitability of my realm. Him, them. Those stubborn souls. Parasite spirits - nay, demons. I will take the ancient trees. The never ending sunrise and the sunset. I will take the very  _ stars _ that seduced him away from my realm.”

The words were sickening. Chilled to the bone, Maleficent was careful not to show a moment of weakness in the face of a being she had only ever seen in passing. Donn, the god of death and ruler of Tech Duinn’s dark pantheon, who had been allowed to taste the most exciting souls before they were torn from him again. The more she began to understand, the louder the silence of the Feth Fiadha became, for the mysterious mists of the Otherworld were not  _ supposed _ to be silent. They concealed life - life of a different ilk, perhaps, but life nonetheless. Ghosts and elves and all manner of things, none of which could be heard.

_ There is a darkness falling over the Moors. I can feel it growing each passing day. It’s in the whisper of the trees and the chill of the wind. The land is trying to tell us something. It goes beyond political squabbles, and yet we are so easily distracted by what the kings and queens of our neighbours might think of us. _

Merin, of course, had been right.

“All this time,” Maleficent murmured, struck with realisation, “I thought you were all pawns of Mori’ka. You let him believe so.”

“He will be mine by the end, when he has ravaged this world. At last. As will you. Welcome the freedom of death, Phoenix.”

“Beloved, you said. You were not always reviled. You allowed this love to turn to hate. You allowed your rage and contempt for life to overwhelm you, and now this corruption that flows from the hearts of nature’s own gods corrupts everything that it touches. You seek to destroy the balance of life and death by tipping it in favour of one.”

“ _ Freedom, _ ” the spirit of the Phoenix insisted. “For you. All of you.”

“No.”

“No?”

Maleficent violently spread her wings. Glorious were they, dark feathers burning with the emerald power of her rage. It was a magic that existed to bring chaos, destruction, and even death. It was a part of her, and it had saved her and those she loved more than once. Therefore, she could welcome its existence, its great power, but never again would she allow herself to be overwhelmed by it entirely.

“ _ No.  _ I have seen and learnt too much to allow this corruption of yours to damage the world my children will grow up in. The Moors has suffered enough! Know that I will not allow my people to be dragged into petty conflicts between men and gods alike. Inevitable though you may be, you hold no power over me. No. The flame of Tech Duinn maintained the balance between life and death.  _ I  _ am life and death, and I do not fear the Otherworld!”

And hence, by better understanding her power and the purpose of the polarised magics she wielded, Maleficent came to realise just what it was the gods feared about her.

The illusion of the first Phoenix wavered when she took a hasty step back. The creature bared her teeth and hissed, the false golden glow of her eyes fading into the sea-green of the Feth Fiadha.

“ _ She  _ sought to end the flow of time. She kept souls from me that were rightfully mine! You cannot save the ones that you love, for the Otherworld shall never side with an abomination that cannot choose her side! You  _ saw _ where it led her.”

“I shall not blame the Phoenix for the terrible things your servant did,” Maleficent proclaimed fearlessly, allowing the power at her fingers and wings to bloom with increasing ferocity. “She was a spirit. She was also a faerie, and so she loved with a passion the likes of you cannot understand. She saw through you and this corrupting greed, this incessant clamour for souls and power, and  _ I _ see through you, too.” And she stared through the mist towards the old god lurking beyond, the world beginning to alight with the flickering presence of gold within her magic. “You all abandoned this world. All of you! I shall love it in your absence. I will bring life where there is death!”

The chasm Maleficent had been unable to cross was bridged.

She did not scrabble at its edges, hoping in vain that the dark magics smothering her would relent and allow her to reach for her own power. No longer. The Feth Fiadha was diseased, twisted by the foul corruption, the greedy mindlessness of death. It was a blight, a wound, and where there was such an imbalance, the Phoenix’s power existed to correct the cycle where it was needed.

However, when that golden magic began to flow from her, the supposed spirit of the Phoenix nearby began to laugh with a manic intensity, clawing at herself with mirth as her image began to break and tear itself apart.

“It is inevitable! You know what must be done!” She screamed out.

And then she was gone.

The shape of Donn in the distance, indistinct and threatening, sank back into the mist with a low rumble of dissatisfaction. The ever present stench of rotting and death did not disappear with him, however, for perhaps it was that in wake of so much devastation and misery, he was never truly gone. 

Maleficent’s suspicions were confirmed when she saw another shape begin to amble towards her in the mist not a moment later. Much smaller. Man-shaped. The creature dragged its feet, doing nothing to try and hide itself in her sights. They slowly emerged, a miserable man with dark, lank hair falling into his near skeletal face, his dirtied armour weighing his frail form down into a hunch. 

Maleficent felt the weight of the man’s presence as though it were a physical burden upon her. In her quiet shock, the golden magic poised to emerge entirely from her form shrank back within like a frightened animal, for it recognised and remembered the cruelty of the person Donn had seen fit to spitefully challenge her with.

She remembered, too. The memory burned within her back and her very wings.

Stefan slowly raised his head to look at her. Where once was there kindness, swiftly changed by greed and madness, his eyes were blank and dull with death. At his chest, he held a grotty shovel tightly in his gauntlets. He began to look about himself, perhaps with no real idea of where he was or why he was there, briefly reaching town to fiddle with the iron chain that dangled from his belt. It seemed to bring him a strange sort of comfort.

“Stop showing her to me,” he said, his accented voice reedy and thin, much more so than before. His eyes widened with mad desperation, and he circled about a bit, entirely lost. “I’ll do anything you want! She says things! Her wings - they speak to me, they threaten me! You can’t leave me alone with her! The …  _ wings _ , black feathers, black wings, so many … ravens, ravens watching from windows. No more, no more!”

In a numb shock, Maleficent watched and listened. The chasm that she had worked so diligently to cross, to better understand her magic and the world, felt ready to rise up and swallow her back into its darkness, that wretched feeling of being so lost with no true idea of where to go. For a long time, it was the only place that had felt like home.

But things had come so far since then.

She felt not an ounce of sadness for the man before her. No sympathy. The fate he’d met in the afterlife felt wholly deserved, in fact: to be treated as a mere instrument, just as he’d treated her. And so, shock fell into revulsion and contempt, and the attempt to frighten her into submission proved ill-thought.

“Unbury the past,” Stefan said, seemingly more to himself. He muttered those words over and over, unphased by Maleficent’s presence the more he succumbed to self-imposed madness. Suddenly, he began to strike at the hard soil beneath him with the shovel with loud clatters of metal on ice. “They’re watching. The wings. The ravens. Quickly, now. Unbury the bones, all of it … She’s still here. Why? Maybe …”

The shovel slipped from Stefan’s hands. He stumbled and fell down, landing at Maleficent’s feet. Still muttering to himself, he looked up at her, his ghostly brow furrowing in thought - or perhaps, realisation. Indeed, the longer he looked at her, the more emotions seemed to pass through those dull pits he possessed for eyes. Recognition, longing, and then hatred. His mouth hung open with shock as he began to rise to his feet, his hand falling to the chain on his belt again.

“Is it you?” He beseeched, reaching forwards. “Maleficent? My … Mine. Maleficent.”

The faerie was swift with her magic. A flash of green, and the spirit of the man who had sought to ruin her stumbled back and then tripped on the abandoned shovel. It was too late, however; when he sat up again, that hatred twisted the entirety of his body. His hands clenched. He scowled, pointing at Maleficent’s belly with a gnarled, shaking finger.

“It’s true. I thought they were lying. You …  _ took _ this from me. Didn’t you? I’m here because of you! You would bring our child into the world without me? You would dishonour me like this?”

“You were the one to dishonour me, Stefan. This pitiful display of yours will do nothing to make me forget it. The only good you ever brought me was Aurora, who has blossomed in the love of a true family. And now, I shall take  _ enormous _ pleasure in dispatching you back to Tech Duinn myself so that I might raise my family in peace.”

He could not have been an illusion. The hate in his eyes was all too real. When his gaze fell to the tell-tale ring upon Maleficent’s finger, his features fell slack with rage.

“It isn’t mine,” he said flatly. His hand was clinging to the chain. With a gasp of torment, he yanked it free and rounded on Maleficent, baring his teeth in an awful, entirely inhuman grin. “A witch and a harlot! Your wings … it was you taunting me from afar, wasn’t it? Oh, I know - I know the truth. You’re a blight. A fetid crone. All the same, you’re still mine. The Moors are mine. Always! If I can’t have you, then nobody else can!”

Maleficent had heard quite enough. 

She was left feeling cold and numb in the presence of such a hateful creature. Calmly, as the spirit foolishly made for her with that dreadful chain swinging about in the air, she raised her hand and was about to smite it with her magic, until -

“Mother!” Came a fearful cry.

And at once, Stefan changed course. 

Whether or not he recognised the voice of Aurora was unclear. He charged like an enraged bull, bellowing his fury, making with surprising speed towards the young woman that had since emerged from the trees with her sword in hand. Maleficent had a split second to see the shock and fright that passed her daughter’s face.

And then suddenly, there were ravens. Thousands of them. They flew in from the mist-coated trees of the woods, their beating wings and rampant cawing near deafening. As a dark cloud seemingly formed of one mind, they descended into the clearing and obscured everything in Maleficent’s sights, swarming about her like wasps. They pulled at her with their claws and snapped with their dangerous beaks, and she realised with horror that this was the fate that Merin had met on that island, all alone. Trusted friends turning on her, servants of a mad coward that they were.

Admidst the chaos of the ravens, she heard a faint thud and then a scream.

“Aurora!”

Her magic, green and fiery and powerful, billowed out of her in three vibrant waves, each pulse of it carrying more and more ravens away into the sky. The rage that came with it was uncontrollable. Feral. It was all she could feel churning and exploding within, and it revelled in its freedom, leaping from tree to tree and attacking any raven that dared venture closer with sharp strikes.

The worst, she saved for Stefan. She summoned a towering inferno of green fire, a raging whirlwind of burning hatred, ready to descend upon him and burn his wretched spirit alive from the outside in - but to her surprise, flames of orange had already claimed him.

Aurora was on the ground, unharmed but now weaponless. The queen quickly rolled out of the way and scrambled up to her feet when the burning body of Stefan, writhing and yelling, crashed down onto the earth for a final time. The blessed blade of the sword was pierced clean through the grotty breastplate he wore, straight through his sternum and through the other side of his back.

Maleficent flew to her daughter’s side and quickly pulled her into her hold, wrapping a wing protectively around her to shield her from the flames and the horror of what was unfolding. She, however, was perfectly content to watch. Perhaps it was not by her own fire that the wicked ghost of her past burnt, but a flame was a flame, one incited by her own daughter no less - one who Stefan had made to suffer, too.

The light of the flames lit the clearing in flares of red and gold. Behind them, ravens landed on the stone statue atop the ancient monument and watched in silence, their black eyes filled with the sinister light. In their sights was a field of tomb-bloom, unharmed and laid to rest, and the bones that festered deep beneath it.

That terrible weight of Stefan’s presence cautiously lifted from Maleficent’s shoulders. Much of it lifted from her heart and her mind. When the flames ebbed and he stood again, there was no man there within the mist, but a boy, one that shared in her momentary confusion before he took one look at her and fled, the silver of his form disappearing in the mist.

Relief. 

Rage, too; his suffering in those few seconds were nothing compared to what she had endured over the years and would still endure for years to come. However, perhaps she could rest at last knowing that Stefan would never emerge from the dark to wound her, for everything that had made him the vile man he was was burnt away.

“Aurora,” she croaked, and suddenly felt the warmth of tears upon her cheeks. Unwrapping her wings from around her daughter just long enough to look at her, she placed her hands on the warm, comforting skin of the young queen’s face, the anger and emptiness she had felt in Stefan’s presence swiftly overwhelmed by the relief and love she felt for her wonderful Beastie.

“Mother,” cried Aurora, burying her head into Maleficent’s shoulder. “You’re alright.”

In that cocoon of affection, a warm, golden light was born. 

Within the mist that had sought to smother the presence of healing magic, it gingerly began to flourish. Through the wild anger and the fear, it emerged from it all like an old friend to surround them both in a bubble of glittering gold. Aurora raised her head to behold it, and her bright smile served to encourage it, sending it out across the clearing, across the deep forests, and eventually across the city of Wickpon to slowly banish away the unseen things and the dank fog of the Otherworld.

Together, they watched those green clouds edge back towards the sea, and were able to do so with ease with the clarity of sight and mind that came with the restoration of the world around them.

“You did it!” Aurora exclaimed, staring in wonder as the woods was freed of the Feth Fiadha and assumedly the gods and monsters it delivered. Her smile soon fell, and she looked towards the scorch on the ground where Stefan had been moments ago. “Was that …?”

“The former king of Perceforest. Yes. He is no more.” Maleficent relaxed herself a little, though her heart still pounded with the rush of it all. What a strange and bittersweet feeling it was. The Lord of Death had brought her there to suffer, but instead, she had bested not only him but the ghosts he’d thought to unearth. Still holding onto Aurora as if she might float away at any moment, she peered down at her, her heart soon swelling with pride. “Perhaps the sword was not such a bad idea, after all.”

“I hope I never have to use it again.” Somewhat nervously, Aurora looked at their audience of eerily silent ravens, sliding her hand back to the hilt of Maeve. A particular sadness entered her usually bright eyes, then. “We just can’t escape him, can we? Look at them watching. Those poor things.”

“That all he can do is watch just shows us how powerless he truly is. He has no physical form. No allies. No friends.” Maleficent stared at the ravens as she said such, but looked away moments later. It was painful, the way that they watched her. It was only by Diaval’s humanity that he was not among them.

She raised a hand and wiggled her fingers, sending a slow stream of golden magic out towards them. Some of them tried to fly away when they saw it approaching. They all succumbed, however - a deep, enchanted sleep like their sister unkindness in the Moors, one that would ease their turmoils and see them through to the moment they were freed of Mori’ka’s influence.

“It seems there is more behind this than demons alone,” she continued, prising herself from Aurora’s embrace at last. She quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks and straightened herself. When she turned, something bright caught her eye: the very Moon itself, hanging low and silent in the early morning sky. She narrowed her eyes at it. “They’re even using Mori’ka to their own ends. The sooner he is defeated and the flame restored, the better. And, Aurora …” Maleficent paused.

“Yes, Mother?”

“... Thank you.”

“Whatever for?”

The faerie sighed and turned her back to the clearing, heading for the forest and the people that needed her help. “For finding me.”

Aurora sheathed her sword and managed a smile, following on behind.

“Don’t you remember? You’re the one that found me.”

* * *

Over the vast forests of the kingdom, a great, black dragon soared through the mists. 

He did not fly blindly in a terrible rage, as dragons were thought to do. He did not seek to cause destruction out of vengeance for all the wrongs done. His amber eyes, alight with the fire that threatened and melted away at his teeth, moved about the trees and searched instead for a life that it wanted to save. Diablo the Black, the dragon of the Moors, was of course not truly the vicious, mindless beast spoken of in stories, nor one that really sought to destroy the castles of Perceforest and Ulstead. The last thing he wanted to do was to terrify children and gobble up humans whole, for he was not Diablo, but Diaval, who thought that humans probably had a disagreeable sort of flavour and hated the thought of killing anything that wasn’t an insect or a rodent.

A dragon was not his nature, but it was a useful skin to wear when the time called for it - albeit a dangerous one, for its mind was a storm easily manipulated by unseen forces. Like a storm, it was also unpredictable, powerful, and chaotic, roaring out like thunder to rip apart the very earth and skies.

But he was Diaval, and he was also wiser than he appeared, because he was, of course, not really a dragon in the slightest. He was a raven, and though he was wounded by the death of a friend and the disaster that had unfolded, he knew he could not make things worse by letting the rage truly embody itself in the shape that he wore. He had to be careful. Precise. A raven on the hunt.

And he knew where to look without having to think about it for long. 

Finding the river, he soared over its length as his keen eyes scoured ahead. He beat at the mist with his wings, sending it rolling off to clear his way. At the river’s edge, he saw statues of ice stood festering alone in a sorry tale long spun, and his stomach lurched at the sight of the poor wolves and the mare that lost their lives to the Moon Witch by only trying to help him. It was at that very spot upon the frozen river that he’d thought it was all over. He’d only had one choice after that: to bring the witch down with him, no matter what. 

Things hadn’t entirely gone to plan. 

He remembered how cold the ice was as he crawled across it, sheer desperation driving him onwards. He remembered the sharp agony of a weapon lancing through him, sure to kill him. More succinctly, he remembered the ache of a curse embedded in his heart that worsened with every step he took from the Moon Witch, every betrayal. It was that very curse which had claimed his life that cold night in Wickpon. And yet, there he was again to reluctantly relive it all as he sought to find Wynne now, not run away.

With a few more beats of his powerful wings, he found the decrepit old farmhouse by the river. Bones gnawed on by wolves still littered the outside of it. Snowy mounds sought to bury the ruins entirely. If he were to look inside, he knew he would find a broken table, the strange magical artefacts of a witch, and a nest woven of the dark trees nearby.

More noticeably, Wynne was there, too, as if no time had passed at all. 

She stood there outside of the house, watching him with a fearful little grin. As soon as Diaval landed close by, she dived to one side and pulled something from the snow - Pioden, whose wrists were bound with twine in front of him. He looked groggy with recent unconsciousness, though scared enough that he clearly knew just who had captured him and likely what fate had since befallen his kingdom. He shook snow from his head and gaped at the dragon that approached, his mouth falling open in terror.

Wynne held her ground. She sneered and hoisted Pio up in front of her as a shield, stopping Diaval in his tracks. 

“Burn me and you burn the precious prince,” she was swift to threaten him. Extending a clawed hand, she created a blade of ice between her fingers and held it to the throat of the terrified boy she held captive. “I hate that shape of yours. It’s ugly. Turn into a man, or I’ll cut this human runt’s throat!”

The dragon’s great claws dug into the earth. Fire flared at his maw, burning readily in his throat and upon his tongue. The creature’s vanity was slighted and the white-winged faerie held something that was  _ his _ , so by rights he should burn her into a crisp. Diaval, however, knew full well that Wynne would not hesitate in her threat, and nor could he unleash his fire while it endangered Pioden, too.

It took an enormous amount of will, but he put a stopper in the dragon’s vial of rage and surrendered the strength and protection that such a shape carried. Though it pained him to obey Wynne’s wishes as though he were bound to her again, Diaval transformed back into a man if only to pacify the witch long enough to remove Pioden from the danger she posed. His man-shape felt extremely flimsy and inconsequential in comparison to a great, magical beast, but it was perhaps the only one that had any true power over Wynne’s wickedness.

She hungrily watched him emerge from the shadow and flame. Forgetting Pioden, she slung him back down into the snow, muffling his surprised cry of Diaval’s name.

“Take the sword off,” she demanded airily, her gaze unblinking as she gingerly approached. “Throw it away.”

Diaval resisted the enormous urge to take several steps back, desiring distance. Pressing his lips firmly together, he undid the belt that bore the sheath of his sword and reluctantly threw the weapon a distance away, careful not to have it disappear into a mound of snow. Wynne observed with a growing smile.

“Take the helmet off.”

He almost obeyed. Foolish.

“Why?”

“I want to see you properly. Come, now, pretty little birdie! I might be dead, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost anything that I felt for you. Momentarily, her fanged smile fell. “ _ Do it. _ ”

As much as he wanted to make a cutting remark, to go against her wishes, she was still too close to Pioden for comfort. To obey her tore at Diaval’s pride, for there were few worse feelings than that of being a bird unwillingly ensnared in thrall to an evil witch. He would do the things Maleficent asked of him because he loved and admired her beyond measure. He would do the things Aurora asked of him because he served her and her kingdom. To even consider bowing to a shameless monster like Wynne was wounding, but necessary. For a time.

He probably should have been terrified and enraged and all manner of other things in her presence. Truth be told, though a part of him, somewhere, must have been feeling those things, he didn’t particularly feel much at all, as though the cold had simply numbed his heart as it had his fingers and toes. After a moment, he reached up and removed the beaked helm to cast it aside.

“Oh, my. Did that hurt?” Wynne said, perking up at once. Drawing nearer, she reached forth as if to touch the wound upon Diaval’s face, though retracted her hand when Diaval flinched. “Don’t be so frightened! You had to have known this day was coming. It’s a blessing, isn’t it? To be eternally reunited!”

“It’ll be a blessin’ when I can go home, put me feet up, and not have to worry about the likes of you anymore, honestly. Say whatever it is you called me here to say, ‘cause I didn’t arm myself with patience tonight.”

Wynne’s laughter was musical. Her smile was beautiful in the way tundra fae were often pleasing to the eye, fair and full of mystery. There was no mystery, however, in the hurt behind the giggles and the accusing glares that were her response.

“Why can’t you just understand?” She asked, laughing again out of evident frustration. “You’re  _ mine _ , Diaval. I made it so. The Moon sought to grant my wish by pulling me from the sea and granting it to me in the form of  _ you _ . The sky, the trees, their whispers all say it’s true. The Moon gave my love to me! And in time, you’ll love my beautiful wings, my misgrown horns. You’ll love  _ me  _ and nothing but me and we’ll return to Tech Duinn, as it was meant to be.”

Sickened by the unveiling of Wynne’s strange fantasy, Diaval watched on in silence. The faerie continued on, delighting in the music of her own words.

“You hear it, too. I know you do. I was the one that took you from this world, and now Tech Duinn calls you home. It’s a place beyond the black veil. Do you remember? It’s an island full of souls, and there we’ll find a cave, just you and I. We’ll build our nest and live happily with each other! All you have to do is put things right. Listen to the sights and sounds. Let your dreams go beyond the veil one more time.”

Her voice was high, soft, and poetic. Ethereal, even, given its unnatural form in the presence of the living. Diaval was careful to watch her as if becoming transfixed by her words, though in the corner of his eye, he could see Pioden begin to quietly scramble to his feet. If he played his cards right, he could give the prince time to escape the Moon Witch entirely.

She was so close that he could count the faint freckles on her cheeks. No warmth emanated from her body at all. She leaned in, and her lips were as cold and cracked as a tombstone against his cheek. Revulsion gripped him; he longed to throw her creeping hand away when it sunk into his hair, and then … what? What was he supposed to do now that she was here? Fight her? Or pretend to be seduced by her words and touch just long enough to figure out another way?

Pio turned back to look at him, terrified. Desperate, Diaval used his good eye to try and tell him to leave, glancing towards the trees over Wynne’s shoulder. However, Pio chose not to run, instead looking urgently about the snow in search of something.

“You’ve tricked me like this before,” Wynne sung callously into the vulnerable crook of Diaval’s neck. “Oh, I remember so well all the awful things you did to me. If you come with me, I’ll forgive you for it. All of it.”

And then she pushed him down onto his back. She was strong, and the sudden move dazed Diaval just long enough for the faerie to move in and sit herself quite happily astride his waist, as though nobody else in the world was watching. For all his intentions, Diaval felt a spasm of panic that he could not conceal and he lashed out at Wynne’s face when she leaned down into him, clawing at it with the points of his gauntlets. 

She did not bleed. The gashes left behind were dark and flaked into nothingness. It was Wynne’s turn to be surprised, and her wings drooped miserably.

“If you think I’m just gonna let you take me with you to your swamp of a nest, you’re wrong. I’ll never follow you, let alone  _ love _ you, and let me tell you, you picked the wrong raven to turn into a servant! You’re just a pawn to someone too cowardly to show his face,” Diaval snarled before he could stop himself. Grabbing Wynne’s wrist, he flung her off him and then pinned her down with his weight, finding the slippery ice of the blade that she had since dropped. “And you won’t follow me anymore, either. You’re just … you’re  _ nothin’ _ . Just a faerie playin’ at love without knowin’ what it even means! You won’t drag me or anybody else down with you anymore!”

All manner of instincts began to rage within him, then. His grip tightened on the blade. It wouldn’t truly get rid of her, but it would inconvenience her long enough to keep her away while the flame was restored. Surprisingly, it was his raven instincts that were the loudest and even the most aggressive as he held that weapon primed above Wynne’s pale head; his heart and mind were  _ his _ territory, and this intruder had invaded both for long enough, even when she was not physically present to do so.

A raven would chase an intruder away, or would even bite at them or wear them out until they were dead. Even when poised to kill, Diaval lingered a moment too long. Was it right what he was doing? Did it matter? 

“Diaval!” He heard Pio yell.

A massive paw thudded into his side and sent him flying off Wynne’s prone form. Landing heavily on the ice of the river, he rolled quickly onto his front and found that in his moment of near vengeance, he had become distracted. 

A massive polar bear with red eyes paced the river’s edge, grunting frustratedly. Behind it, Wynne rose to her feet again, her white eyebrows raised with a mixture of feigned surprise and what was perhaps sincere upset. 

“At least my dear Dána knows his place,” she called, and her lower lip wobbled with insult. “Don’t you, sweet thing? He’s far more obedient, far more lovely than you ever were! Maybe I don’t really need  _ you _ when I have him. Into a man, Dána! Do as I say!”

It was pitiful the way the white beast cowered in response to Wynne’s reedy demands. Given the dark slashes cutting into its fur and unnatural flesh, it was far from being the first time that the witch had commanded the wraith and forced it into doing her bidding. Diaval was horrified by the realisation. He had feared the white raven, especially after learning that it was not another shapeshifter but rather a manifestation of a stolen part of his own soul, but despite the things that it had done, it hurt to see its pain.

How in control was it of what it was doing? What did it say about him that it was capable of obeying wickedness without question?

And before his very eyes, the wraith did what Diaval had hoped was impossible: it emerged from a swirl of white in precisely the shape that Wynne wanted. 

Its eyes were soft with fear. Dark, like two deep ponds from which a red glow shone from their very depths. It was a mirror image of Diaval for the most part, though its skin was pale with death and its hair was so frosted over with cold that it appeared white. It wore no clothes and stood there shaking like a leaf - whether in response to the chill or to the threat of Wynne, it wasn’t clear. Worst of all, when it looked away from her towards Diaval, its pointed, ragged features became so twisted with mindless contempt that it suddenly didn’t look like him at all.

He glared at it. It glared back at him. Its resolve swiftly broke, however, when Wynne’s small hand touched upon its shoulder and it flinched. Ignoring its evident discomfort, Wynne leaned in and began to whisper into its ear, letting the palm of her hand fall slowly down to its chest.

Diaval had seen enough. No matter whose side the white raven might have been on, it didn’t deserve to be left to Wynne’s maddened fantasies. 

He turned into a bear, careful to step off the ice before doing so - however, the transformation barely lasted longer than a few seconds: no sooner was he charging towards Wynne to separate her from the wraith, his form shrank back to that of a man against his will. Surprised by the sudden shift in shape, he staggered through the snow and ended up ensnared in Wynne’s arms, instead. The faerie pushed the wraith aside and laughed as she made the most of Diaval’s shock to hold him against her.

“See! This power of yours knows what you don’t! You  _ want _ to obey Tech Duinn’s call. Your future is to be my mate in death. Now it’s time to make it so. I never  _ did _ release you from my service.”

“Oh, shut it,” Diaval spat at once. Though he trembled, his anger had worsened in response to the magic at his very fingers betraying him yet again. This close to the cold and cruel countenance of one that had haunted his nights for so long, he couldn’t quite breath or think. Maybe just this once, he didn’t need to think. Caution had gotten him into trouble more than once. Maybe Wynne didn’t deserve a second thought, and maybe now was his opportunity to end it once and for all. He licked his dry lips, and he glared at her with all the venom he could muster. “I’d rather gargle holy water than have anythin’ to do with you ever again. Everyone would’ve loved you if you’d used your magic for good, but you didn’t. You can’t just force people into givin’ you the things you want! This is over. Get your talons off me.”

Then he kicked her. The faerie stumbled back and was pulled down by the weight of her wings. She stared up at him, stunned, tears forming in her eyes despite her undeath.

“O-over?” She whimpered, gripping a newly formed blade of ice in both hands.

“Yes.  _ Over _ . And I can’t wait for the day years from now when you’re nothin’ but a distant memory, ‘cause that’s what you are.  _ Nothing _ . Now, you can either fly on back to Tech Duinn yourself or you can just sit there and  _ I’ll _ send you back. I don’t care, ‘n I never will.”

Wynne stared at him, her pale eyes darkening like the shadowy approach of a thunderstorm. Then, her features shook and crumpled with true upset, tears falling and freezing there upon her cheeks. 

Diaval tried his hardest to transform. He really tried, clenching his fists and inwardly demanding that the power take hold, but his words fell upon deaf ears. As though smothered by a veil separating him from the power he was supposed to be able to command, he suddenly could not see it or feel it at all, like so many other times before. The inability to defend himself was suspiciously inconvenient, as though there was a sinister intent behind him being trapped in a human form - and he had no doubt such was the truth.

The white raven stood aside and watched, head tilting in a strange display of curiosity.

Without any time to seek his sword or anything that might help, all Diaval could do was attempt to dive out of the way when Wynne’s powerful wings propelled her forwards, but she caught him with ease and sent him tumbling back against a jagged boulder. Dazed, he had no time to recover before the faerie was upon him, and she pulled him up by his throat, her fangs bared and ghoulish eyes filled with tears.

“It’s your fault I’m like this!” She wailed, her words her disappearing into the ghastly, unnatural screech of her voice. “You were supposed to stay with me! Forever! It’s all your fault, you stupid bird! Stupid raven! Get out of my head! Get OUT!”

She had seized his throat so tightly that he couldn’t breathe. Valiantly he fought, but even in death, Wynne’s strength was superior to his own. She had used it against him before, many times. She had closed her hands about his neck and threatened his life. This time, she was fully intent on ridding him of his breath entirely. Darkness was closing in, forming a tunnel in his vision that allowed him to see only her. Something was scrabbling at the back of his mind in the same way he clawed and tore at her hands - a dragon, he thought, perhaps about to save him with its terrible claws and burning fire.

But it wasn’t a dragon at all, for anger could not truly be given a form. It was not another creature separate from himself. It was a part of him in ways it had never been before, tearing its way through memories he would have rather laid buried. Wynne was a part of many of them, he knew. Regardless of Mori’ka’s input, she had willingly done all those terrible things to him and to everyone else.

She didn’t deserve his hesitation.

A shape moved behind her. It was his last opportunity. 

Desperate, he mustered what he could of his strength and seized her neck in turn, using the length of his arm to keep adequate distance between them as he planted a foot back against the boulder and thrust himself forwards.

Wynne’s screams of rage ceased at once. She gasped instead, and she looked down to find the source of the dull  _ thud _ that had interrupted her. Diaval looked, too, taking deep, stinging breaths of air as the hands around his neck slowly loosened. 

A shining blade had pierced her through the back and penetrated her torso. Instead of blood, black smoke began to ease through the wound. Wynne choked in surprise, taking a good few steps back when the sword was yanked from her person by Prince Pioden, who quickly knelt at Diaval’s side and caught him when he fell back against the stone. 

Diaval closed his eyes. An orange light flared within the darkness he saw, and the smell of smoke became increasingly pungent. And then there was a terrible, heart-wrenching scream of agony and loss and rage, so loud and so terrible that he tried to cover his ears, but it did nothing to muffle the truth of what was happening: Wynne’s destruction at the hands of Pioden and a blade blessed by Aurora herself. 

Any anger he might have felt seemed to have never existed in the first place, for it departed him swiftly. It left an empty hollow in its wake. When the world fell silent, he dared open his eyes a little way and saw to his surprise that Wynne was still stood there, unburnt and silvery in a new, incorporeal form. Strangest of all was the confusion and lack of recognition to be found when he looked at her face for a final time.

Diaval felt something he had felt with rarity in the past. 

Envy.

Wynne regarded them without another word. She took a step back, and then her form dispersed into a pale, silvery light, soaring up to disappear into the mists of the Feth Fiadha. 

Diaval’s vision swam. He was surely more exhausted than he had ever been in his entire life. It felt as though he had gone years beating his wings against the wind nonstop and only now could he fall to the ground and rest a while. Aching to his very bones, he fell back against the jutting stone Wynne had tried to dash him against.

She was gone. Wynne was truly gone.

It wasn’t quite the relief that Diaval had assumed. In fact, when he tried to consider through the dizzying waves of weariness that he would in fact never have to face Wynne again, he didn’t really feel anything at all. In place of elation and weightlessness was a simple impassiveness, even a numbness that didn’t feel right, and yet persisted.  _ She’s gone,  _ he told himself over and over.  _ She’s gone!  _ And yet there was nothing save for a dull ache in his chest that felt to be worsening as the seconds passed. 

It grew into an agony that he did not have the strength to even begin to understand. The ache crept into his throat and tightened it, making it more difficult to breathe. The cold of the snow beneath him stung his limbs through his armour, just about reminding him where he was, what had just happened, and that sitting against that rock wasn’t helpful to anyone. Silently, he reached a hand towards Pioden, who was knelt nearby with the sword drawn up to his chest, wide-eyed and drawn with terror. 

“D-Diaval?” Pio seemed just about able to manage. His large, brown eyes were glistening with the pale light of the snow. He was trembling, but he was able to gather his resolve and look between Diaval and the frosty reflection of the wraith stood watching, then shuffled quickly over to Diaval and dabbed carefully at the blood on his face with his sleeve. “You look  _ terrible. _ ”

Diaval just nodded vaguely, his gaze flitting blankly over to the white raven - or rather, the pale image of himself, which was watching with that same curiousity as before.

“You saved my life,” he croaked, turning his attention back to Pioden. His good eye was burning with fatigue. Though it was freezing cold and the Feth Fiadha still loomed over them, it felt as though all his body could even fathom was a sudden urge to sleep and recover. Strange thing, the human body was. Even stranger was the mind, fully aware of what was happening and yet feeling nothing in wake of it, as if all form of emotion had simply drained into the earth beneath him. 

“I guess I did.” Pioden’s voice emerged again within the mental fog. “Kind of cool, right? Though … also not. I just … I couldn’t just leave you to fight her alone! Besides, I was repaying a favour. I wouldn’t even know what was happening in Wickpon if not for you, remember? I wouldn’t have anything.” The prince smiled wearily, though it was quickly replaced with an expression of concern. “Diaval. Stay awake. We still have to get out of here, okay? Then you can tell me what the hell that thing is staring at us!”

“‘S a fetch. A wraith,” Diaval grunted, fighting the heaviness of his eyelid. “Don’t look at it. Bad luck, or somethin’. Bad omen.”

“Why does it look like you?” Pioden pressed, understandably unnerved by the immediate presence of a near doppelgänger. There was, of course, no evident reason for its existence, and the creature itself appeared similarly confused and lost about the nature of itself and its new shape, blinking down at its hands and feet and carefully moving and bending them. “R-right. Fetch. Omen.”

“Jus’ leave it here. I need to get to Maleficent. Aurora. There’s a place further down the river. Everyone is groupin’ there. All your people, too. So, let’s go.”

“Right,” Pio responded a little more firmly. Then, his eyes lit up with hope. “Is my mum there? Did you find her in the castle?”

The ache in Diaval’s chest worsened, as though a blade within it was being twisted sharply through the frigid cold. That blade dug deeper and deeper, tearing into him until he thought he might be sick. Mera was gone, he had seen it happen himself, and now he was faced with her son who had no idea what had transpired in the castle. Death didn’t even seem to be a consideration for the young and hopeful prince. Even faced with the prospect of relaying the news of a loved one’s death, all he felt was that awful swelling, dull pain churning within. 

No sorrow or sadness. No grief. It was the strangest thing. He was sickened by it. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t him.

He tried to speak, but all that emerged past the lump in his throat was a raspy groan. That in particular earned the attention of the white raven nearby. The wraith’s head rose to look at them, and the red, pinprick glow deep in the darkness of its eyes was suddenly so piercing that the gaze of the creature alone felt to be iron shackles keeping Diaval pinned to the ground. 

“Pioden,” the creature spoke, and it was a strange, hair-raising sound, the voice existing on the mortal realm and all manner of others at once. It spoke questioningly, apparently unused to the power of speech. “Pioden asked a question.”

That the white raven had acquired speech should have terrified Diaval. He knew that. The cold prickled at his skin as he looked at the drawn, haunted reflection stood rocking on its feet. Despite its clear nerves and the lost look to its pointed countenance, it seemed to have a better idea of what was going on than he did.

“The answer is silence,” the white raven concluded accusingly. “Nothin’. Blank space. What’s anyone supposed to do with that? Isn’t it better to just … fly away? It’s better that than they see the truth.”

It was then that deep in the fog of unnatural nothingness that a significant discomfort slowly began to emerge. A great fear, even. The head of a wild animal poking its head through the trees, scenting the air and ready to either charge or bolt at any second. Diaval was momentarily frozen, a dreary acknowledgement nudging its way past the tiredness threatening to remove him from the situation. He had to move. The wraith was not on his side. It was another obstacle to be defeated.

“Diaval?” Pioden questioned quietly, terror in his voice as he watched his friend slowly begin to shift and reach for the sword in his lap. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nothin’. Let’s go. Quickly, now.”

“Nothin’,” the white raven mirrored slowly, tilting its head in bird-like fashion. It was difficult to tell whether it was genuinely confused or merely pretending to be so. “Everythin’. Actually. I see it. ‘Cause, it’s really all our fault. They’ll realise, won’t they? He’ll realise. She’ll realise. All this. It was us. We’re not what they thought. We’re not what we thought. Let’s just fly away.”

That fear became a deep, burgeoning terror, one that somehow felt close to his heart and distant all at once. The wraith knew everything about him, perhaps even things that he was too scared to acknowledge, and yet it lacked the fear to speak those thoughts. Its gaze was turning oddly hawkish. Threatening, even, as if Diaval had done something incredibly wrong and it was taking it upon itself to act as a pale accuser now that Wynne or Mori’ka weren’t there to do it. But Mori’ka must have been behind it, somehow, just as he was behind the existence of the wraith in the first place. Diaval could never look as formidable as the creature did. He could never seem so lost and hateful.

Taking the sword, Diaval used it to slowly push himself to his feet. His body screamed at him to stop, and his mind suddenly felt full of damp cotton as the dizziness set in again. Quickly, he grabbed Pioden’s arm and allowed the prince to bear some of his weight a moment.

“Maleficent,” was all he could think to say in the fog of his thoughts. “I need …”

“Yeah, it’s alright, I’ll get you back to her, you just gotta keep going -“

“Yes, I think we’ve hurt Maleficent enough over the past few years, don’t you?” The white raven jibed, and Diaval couldn’t ever remember himself sounding so cruel, not even when speaking to a person he disliked. “All the tears she has shed over us and we have the nerve to just keep going back! We were supposed to help her. She needed us. We weren’t there.”

Admirably, despite having no idea what was going on, Pioden saw fit to take the lead and try to pull Diaval away. They only made it a few steps before the wraith started again, jabbing with its words like tiny blades meant to wound and open truths to the world that had festered and hidden for years. They were cut like monsters from Diaval’s flesh, and life was breathed into them before his very eyes. That deep ache in his chest became so painful, so heavy, that it anchored him to the snow. How was he supposed to go on?

“She’ll find out. She’ll find out, she will, that Wynne being gone doesn’t make us happy. It should, shouldn’t it? That’s how it works. But, we remember …” As accusing as the terrible eyes of the wraith were, they were wet with the presence of tears. When they began to fall, they burnt onto the pale man’s cheeks and left black streaks there to be seen by all. “Maybe Wynne was right. She was … the first … so we did belong to her. It’s the raven way. ‘Cause there was that part it felt good, even when we hated it. Did Maleficent really forgive us for that?”

A flare of rage. It could not be quelled long enough to restrain himself. As quickly as it had emerged, it was drawn back within and Diaval was left staring at his own balled fist, which seconds ago had buried itself into the cheek of the wraith and sent it flying to the ground. Stunned, he quivered and receded into that strange state of nothingness, willing it to wrap itself around him like armour. 

He wrenched himself out of Pioden’s hold, set with a sudden clarity and determination. Reaching for the wraith, which was curled and shivering in the snow, he grabbed it by its neck and pulled it up to face him - and then struck it again, desiring its silence. He heard Pioden calling his name nearby, but barely acknowledged it through the sudden and visceral need to dispose of the awful ghost that had caused so many problems.

“They’ll know!” The wraith choked out, trying to crawl away. Realising it was futile, it let itself be pulled up again, the emotive counter to the sheer raging  _ nothing  _ that Diaval felt when he looked at the cursed reflection - nay, the monster twisted by Mori’ka’s own claws. “They’ll realise. It was all us. All of this. All these people. All this loss and death. It was us. We let ourselves be tricked by a demon and gave it the strength it needed to do all this. All to keep a promise. To see them again.” The white raven stared up at him, tears continuing to burn into its sallow face. “But we know. None of this would have happened if we hadn’t come back. They wouldn’t have followed us here. So why go back? After everythin’ we’ve done? They would still be alive if not for us. All of ‘em. So it would’ve been better if we’d just … stayed dead. Wouldn’t it?”

Diaval lunged. He threw his entire weight into the creature, squashing it into the snow. Though he didn’t have the strength to hold it down, he had a sword, which he scrabbled for and seized by the velvety hilt before the wraith could fight him off. Something in his mind, something yet unladen with the miserable impact of a raven’s cruel words, told him to stop, however, just as the point of the blade came to touch his foe’s throat. His hand shook, straining with the effort it took not to simply dispose of it and send it off back to the miserable realm it emerged from, for the will came much easier than it ever did with Wynne. 

“You remember,” the wraith taunted weakly beneath him, its dry lips curled. “We couldn’t even kill her when it mattered. How many people … might we have saved? Why are we here and not where  _ he  _ is? How many people might we have saved? How can we go back to the Moors … to her, when we’re just as awful as he is?”

The dull, terrible ache in Diaval’s chest was nearly suffocating. Perhaps there was something to be felt in all this. Perhaps it was the very thing that stared him right in the face, a ghost that carried the scars of the past as easily as it wore Diaval’s own face. It spoke of his guilt, for it carried it just as he did, lashing out with it as though it were a weapon. Ravens held grudges for years and years; the ghost would not stop following him, no matter how many times he destroyed it.

“Diaval?” A small voice spoke behind him. Pioden. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been panting viscerally through his teeth, poised as if to slice the wraith in half from top to bottom if time allowed. The reminder that Pioden was there filled him with a strange sort of sensation. It felt as though he was seeing himself from the outside, and what he saw was something he did not recognise at all. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t Diaval. He wasn’t the raven that Maleficent had rescued from beneath a farmer’s net. He didn’t really know what it was he saw, but he knew that he didn’t like it. 

He wished it was an apparition of Mori’ka he held in his hands. At least then, he would have known what to do with it. Slowly, as poorly restrained rage ebbed back into the strange, dull blankness it had protected like a shield, Diaval sheathed his sword and rose back to his feet. He’d asserted his dominance over the other raven, for there was little else that he could do with it. All the more, if it was the part of him that Mori’ka had taken in exchange for his life, chances were he was going to need it at some point. 

And Udo’s words seemed to echo distantly, gently, within the late Winter wind.

_ You might consider that it is as worthy of compassion as the soul it was torn from, friend, lest it haunts you until your last breath. Let us continue on. The living are still in need of us. _

“Tell him,” the wraith insisted, a true sadness to its ghastly voice. “Tell him that you failed. Or just fly away and don’t come back.”

There was a brief silence, one interrupted by the muffled sound of Pioden’s feet dragging through the snow towards him.

“Diaval? What’s he talking about?”

There was a steady hand at his arm. Diaval took a shaky breath, exhausted and overwhelmed, unable to tear his gaze away from the wraith on the ground. He closed his uninjured eye and willed the creature to disappear.

“Turn into a raven,” he said to it, so quietly that the rasp of his voice was almost lost in the wind and snow. “Don’t ever be anythin’ else.”

It looked up at him a moment longer. Black blood dripped from its nose and mouth, staining its teeth as it offered a strange, unhappy sort of smile. It relaxed, and then with a swirl of cold wind and pale mist, it assumed its raven-shape and fluttered up to sit on Diaval’s shoulder, ruffling its ragged feathers.

Pioden blinked cluelessly up at the pair, his mouth agape.

“What?!” He breathed, even laughing anxiously and running his hands back through his hair. “That’s actually the scariest thing I’ve ever seen! I mean -  _ wow _ . Was all that real? Are you alright? I really hope there’s people out there that can help process all this stuff. For  _ you _ , I mean, not for me, ‘cause … y’know, that’s a lot. A  _ lot.  _ Uh … you don’t really feel like that, do you? If you do, you know … I’m right here.”

The intense guilt worsened, clenching within Diaval’s chest, the blade ever twisting, ever deepening.

“Wickpon is fallin’,” he flatly reminded the prince, unsure how to respond to the many questions thrown his way.

“Right, but … stone walls can be rebuilt,” Pio responded, the cheeriness to his tone clearly forced, but admirably so. He really had no idea how bad it all was. That youthful innocence to him remained, yet unbroken by the sight of his kingdom burning, unburdened by knowledge of his mother’s fall at the hands of the dead. The longer he looked at Diaval, the more serious and scared he came to appear. “Right?”

Nearly choking with the approach of the news he had to relay, Diaval struggled, wrangling with himself internally. His own grief had not yet truly settled in, he knew that much. It existed plainly out of reach, not yet his to partake in. There was something that mattered more than how he felt about everything that had come to pass, and that was a young man who knew nothing of his own mother’s death, a prince that faced a raven without knowledge of the news it brought.

The white raven croaked and chewed pressingly at Diaval’s ear.

“Right,” he barely managed, unsure how to proceed. “They can, and the Moors and … the fae will be here to help. You’ll never be alone. Your mother knew that. That’s why she sent me to find you, ‘cause she knew I would be here for you no matter what.”

Pioden smiled, though it fell almost immediately as the weight of those words set in. He appeared confused, then angry, and then distraught, his features creasing.

“Wait, what? Is that what the raven was talking about? Did something happen?”

“She was fightin’ in the castle. Your mum. She was fightin’, and then … I’m so sorry, Pio, but she’s gone. It was … it was quick, an’ she was at peace by the end, I swear it.” Choked up, Diaval bowed his head towards the young man, ashamed that he wasn’t able to relay the tale of the queen’s miraculous survival, that he had managed to pull her from the throne room and away from danger just in time. “Wickpon falls to you.”

His brow furrowing, Pioden continued to shake his head out of sheer disbelief.

“No. What? That isn’t … But I only just came home, really, so … that can’t be right. You’re just pulling my leg.”

The journey of emotions that followed the news seemed to last an age, one that Pioden was entitled to spend for as long as he wished. It began with denial, but when he realised Diaval would not be so cruel as to lie or joke about the death of Queen Mera, denial turned to realisation, and then to a sudden and heart wrenching turmoil. The prince stared at him, and then he wailed with all the sorrow and grief that a human heart could possibly contain, expelling it out for all the many ghosts of the woods to hear.

Diaval blindly came forwards. He wrapped Pioden in his arms and held him tightly, listening silently to the muffled cries that ensued into the fly plaid at his shoulder. In the presence of another’s grief, his own almost emerged to overwhelm him at long last - but it wasn’t time. He couldn’t be a staunch presence for those that needed it if he let his own upset come to the forefront. The white raven’s harsh words could not mean anything. Not yet. All the grief, all the guilt he felt with a fallen kingdom at his back would not yet see the light of day while a boy was left behind in the world of the living to assume a mantle he was not ready for. 

They were as still as statues there beside the river. Snow gathered on their joined forms. Very slowly, gradually, Pioden’s small shakes ceased, and he fell limp with the exhaustion of grief in Diaval’s arms. Careful not to drop him, Diaval knelt down and held him a while longer, for as long as he needed. Pioden’s shuddering breaths and the sounds of his pain were heartbreaking; the age old story of a child losing a beloved parent far too soon.

“I-I can’t!” Pioden cried, muffled, clinging on to Diaval’s shoulders. “I only just … only just came back. We should have had …  _ years _ . How am I supposed to do this without her? I don’t know anything about being a king!”

“Yes, you do. You spent years with her, ‘n it’s her blood flowin’ through you. And you’re not gonna be doin’ it alone. Udo and the tundra fae stand by your side, and so does the Moors. Always. I know it’s too soon, but your people need someone strong to take her place, now, and if there’s anyone determined and brave enough to lead as a king, it’s you. I know it’s true. I spend a lot of time around royalty.”

Pio pulled back a little and looked up at him, a miraculous hope there to be seen within the depths of pain. Diaval saw it and knew that his words were true. He continued:

“All the curiosity and tenacity of a magpie and the ferocity of a swan! That’s the Pioden Queen Mera raised. No broken walls can stand in his way, can they? Not when he embodies this strong line of kings and queens. The very spirit of the mountains here. I know your mum’s findin’ her way to the Otherworld as we speak, and she’s smilin’ ‘cause she gave a gift to the world. And she loves you so much, y’know. Remember her, and you’ll feel it, I swear you will.”

And just as Diaval spoke those words, something unexpected happened.

He heard a shrill but beautiful call emerge like a song over the trees. He recognised it as the call of a phoenix, loud and bright and laden with untold power. To his raven heart, it was one of the most beautiful sounds he could ever listen to, not only for the grandeur of a phoenix among bird-kind but because of just who the call must have belonged to. Pulling Pio into his chest, he turned his gaze to the sky and saw that golden magic was twinkling within the green of the Feth Fiadha, reminding him so much of Maleficent’s beautiful eyes that it hurt.

The presence of the gold among green grew and grew. The phoenix magic leapt from tree to tree across the woods, and as it did, it lifted the veil of mist away from the world up into the sky. Her power was like fire, bright and resplendent, banishing the evil away where it lingered like an immensely ominous storm cloud containing not rain but the formidable dead.

That magic soon fell over them both. The warm relief of it was so sweet that Diaval sagged and exhaled with relief, feeling that familiar power enter through him and immediately begin to ease the pains and soreness of his body. The burning of his blinded eye was lifted and his sight restored, and that insistent ringing in his ears faded into silence. Despite the nature of the white raven, it too seemed to find nothing but rejuvenation in the midst of Maleficent’s healing power, not frightened away or banished with the rest of them but instead finding its vacant wounds sealed.

And with that, the looming Feth Fiadha began to drift away towards the east.

Without its presence, there came both visual and mental clarity. It was removed from the kingdom and so were the unwelcome dead. For now, it was over, and all that was left to do was pick up the many, many fallen pieces, the first of which Diaval held in his own arms. 

Maleficent’s power could not outright heal any mental hurts. Though Diaval was still somehow both empty and overwhelmed following his final altercation with Wynne and the white raven, he found the strength to stand again and bring Pioden up onto his feet. That pain was not for now, he insisted to himself. The ramifications of the truths spilled and heard unwillingly lingered and threatened, but did not yet allow themselves to come to light. 

After a moment, he slowly parted from Pio and took a few steps back, bowing his head again in gratitude for his life and in a gesture of respect.

“They say Queen Mera once rode into battle on the back of winged horse,” he said, hearing the vague hollowness to his voice as he spoke. Pioden did not seem to hear it. The boy wiped his eyes and stared, that inspiring presence of hope still there to be seen.

“What? Really?”

“Oh, yes. Right into the fold she went, buryin’ her axe right into the skulls of monsters.”

Not a moment later, Diaval saw the world disappear into a wild swirl of wind and shadow, and when it re-emerged, he was bigger and stronger, wearing once again the shape of a dark horse with two powerful wings. He knelt and allowed Pio to ascend his back, bearing the price as he had carried the queen, too, only now there seemed a much better chance of bringing his rider to safety.

The white raven followed them as they travelled across the crown of the woods, cawing frequently. If one cared to consider its rattling croaks, they might think that there was something else that it wanted to say.

* * *

It was worse than Diaval could have ever imagined. 

Much worse, in fact.

Most of Wickpon was in ruins. It was a smaller city than Ulstead and not fortified half as well, resulting in far more destruction. That, and the dead appeared to have resorted to more clever tactics, utilising oil and fire to burn down much of the town. The place was a mere husk of its former self, now, a black stain on the snowy fields that flanked it.

Diaval had flown past it as quickly as he could, wary of the ruined remnants of a once grand, dark castle looming behind, but the city’s destruction was not the worst of it.

More people were lost. Many more.

At some point he’d found his way into the fairy structure that housed the dead, his intention to take Pioden to his mother’s body to say a final farewell. There she was, lying beneath a long blanket of leaves with several fallen castle guards. Their faces were flaxen and grey, and the smell of blood and death was so pungent that Diaval almost turned and left to recover, but instead he looked over those that were lost as a painful, creeping cold settled across and within him.

Some of them far too young to have suffered such a way. Diaval reached and held onto the knotted wall of the domed structure as he gazed upon them. Separate from them, there was the body of a young forest fae boy he just about recognised.

Speechless and wounded, Diaval approached and got a closer look at him out of a simple disbelief. He knelt and gently touched the young faerie’s cool cheek. His eyes were forever closed, and soon he would be laid to rest in the tomb-bloom fields so that his fairy magic could continue on in another immobile but beautiful form.

The sight absolutely shattered him. Blankly turning, he found Pioden and other humans knelt beside those that were lost. He saw their tears, heard their torment, and he felt their pain as though it were his own. It was a slow grief that began to emerge from the dull nothing that had occupied him since witnessing Mera’s death, but to feel something again was no relief. It felt more of a curse, in fact. A raven was far more able to pick itself up and carry on following tragedy, even if they felt more strongly than others dared imagine. Humans, however … it was more like a physical injury, one that would scar over and remain forever. 

Perhaps he had always been too callous about humans. Maybe he had even sometimes misunderstood them. Though he felt the emotions of a human and certainly resembled one, he knew that he didn’t really belong among them. He didn’t really belong among grieving fairies, either, for as the white raven had been so kind to remind him, he might have held a measure of responsibility for the deaths for those lying unmoving at his feet.

_ Him _ . 

That wasn’t right. That wasn’t  _ right _ . 

It was a formidable pain. The beginnings of realisation. The acknowledgement of his part in things. Though he knew the white raven was a twisted wraith that likely spouted things meant to weaken his precious resolve, he couldn’t help but see truth to its words. Mori’ka wouldn’t have gained a true foothold in the mortal realm if not for him. The Feth Fiadha wouldn’t have returned at the demon’s command. All so a raven could emerge into a future that suddenly didn’t feel like it really belonged to him at all. Had it been an act of love on his part? Or an act of selfishness?

It was all too much all at once. The past few years had cast their stones and cast them viciously, and now he suffered all of that again within the space of a few minutes. The walls of an uncomfortable emptiness were breached and the result was a mad rush and rumble of dour thoughts and emotions, nothing that made sense in their potency, their simultaneous cries to be heard. 

Leaving the laments behind him, Diaval blindly emerged from the shelter and headed straight for the forest. Everything was all too loud, the quiet, morose chatter of the place sounding suddenly more like the bickering of devils or the pleas of the humans desperate for help as their homes burned. The dark shapes of the trees were no comfort but seemed to morph into skulking shadows, their branches carrying ravens that surely acted as the eyes of the one responsible for it all.

Somewhere in the din, he acknowledged that it wasn’t a very Diaval-like thing to be doing: disappearing into the woods when there were others that had suffered far more in the invasion than he had, feeling himself maddened by the slightest of sounds and reminders, paranoia flooding through him at every clack of a beak or scrape of claws on wood. However, he realised quite brutally in that moment that the Diaval of the past was a creature very much gone, or simply having grown into something else entirely. He wasn’t Diaval anymore. It was no wonder nobody ever got his name right. He was … something else, something far less clever and witty and useful.

Mera was  _ dead.  _ Merin … that young fae boy … Cadaver, the boy from Breoslaigh … who was it to be next? What if it was Phillip? Aurora? Maleficent? His children? Would Mori’ka really stop at nothing until the world was void of anything good?

Perhaps that was a goal already achieved, or it certainly felt to be that way in that moment in the woods, beneath the stars. Though he was away from the presence of death, he could still feel it. It clung to him like a shadow, an unseen embrace from another world. Beneath a tree somewhere in the wild, Diaval sat and held his head in his hands, trying desperately to fight away such dangers whether they were merely imagined or not. When he saw the black veil in dark flashes, its foul, rattling wind pulling him in, he cried out and clawed at the nearest tree as though it were Mori’ka himself. He struck it over and over again, willing everything he had done to just disappear and restart with a new, better beginning.

It was too late for that. They were gone. All of them. Wynne’s defeat did not feel like any sort of victory or exchange. There was nothing that could make right the unfairness and suffering that had befallen others. There was nothing that could make death right at all.

His howls of grief and utter frustration seemed to frighten the shadows of the trees away. All but one. 

Slender and imposing and graceful in form, it approached, golden armour glittering in the moonlight. The shadow, which wasn’t really a shadow at all, stood there at his side when all finally fell to heavy tears, dark wings brushing against his arm and cheek. It was a long time before the sobs even began to relent. When there were no more tears to be spared and the flashing, twisting shape of the world seemed to restore to some sort of normality, Diaval found himself curled at Maleficent’s feet. It was a shameful feeling. He was a raven caught in a farmer’s net once more despite her efforts to free him, and he so hated to be the one to bring her pain.

He ran his gauntlets over his face and back through his hair, glancing towards the terror that was the world mere minutes ago. All he saw was trees, snow, and the darkness in-between. Swallowing thickly, he slowly looked up towards the faerie beside him and found Maleficent’s unreadable eyes bearing down upon him, her pale features carefully controlled.

Distraught and ashamed, but very relieved to see her unharmed, he looked away.

“Aurora?” He managed in a barely audible croak.

“She is unharmed and resting with Phillip.”

More relief, a surge of it so intense that it tightened his chest. With a small sound of acknowledgement, he nodded slightly.

“There was … it was -“

“Remove it.”

The demand was spoken sharply into the chill. Confused and numb following the immense surge of emotion that had found its way out of him, he chanced another glance, this time towards Maleficent’s boots.

“Wha’?”

“The torch, Diaval.”

Somewhat clueless, he reached for the torch attached to his back regardless and pulled it from its fastenings there. It proved something of an unusual struggle. The artefact had become increasingly heavy ever since he’d first donned it, though not in a true physical sense; it was more as if something was pulling at him, too, from within the cursed thing. Quickly, he dropped it into the snow and rid himself of it for a time.

Only then did Maleficent kneel down beside him. In the corner of his eye, he could see a very stern sort of concern take hold of her proud face. He read it as easily as a book. She was scared, too.

“That torch is touched by Tech Duinn. Relieve yourself of its burden when you can. Do you hear me?”

He did hear her. Leaning against the nearest tree, he nodded, still laden with dread in his mate’s powerful, incredible presence.

“I … You did it, Maleficent. I knew you could. Your power, it’s … it feels different. Stronger, I think.”

“In some ways, perhaps. I was not able to banish the Feth Fiadha back to Tech Duinn, but it has left to wander the seas until the morning, with any luck. Something rather remarkable happened at a small shrine in the woods. I will tell you all about it.”

“It’s you. You’re remarkable,” Diaval responded somewhat idiotically, though he meant the words with all his heart. “Most remarkable person there is. I’m so happy you’re alright. I’m sorry that …”

“Sorry for what?” She was quick to return with, displeasure in her tone. “Diaval.”

“For …” Diaval stopped and thought a moment, swallowing again as he dully thought of all the things that seemed worthy of an apology. “I can’t even … think of anythin’ to make you laugh. It’s the worst feelin’ of my life. ‘M sorry for all the times I wasn’t beside you. ‘M sorry for not bein’ Diaval when you needed it.” His voice was nothing but a sorry rasp by then. He closed his eyes; they were too hot and heavy to keep open much longer. “I’m sorry for everythin’ you’ve had to deal with since I was brought back. I don’t know what I’m doin’, Maleficent. I was good at tellin’ people what the right thing was, but I realised I don’t really know anythin’ at all. I’m a bird. Now they’re gone. Did you see ‘em? Just lined up like that.”

Maleficent’s lips pursed slightly. Her own upset about it all was no secret, it was there to be seen if one knew her well enough, though she was doing a significantly better job of maintaining a grasp of her feelings than he was, as though fate had thought to temporarily remove him from his usual role of mediator. There would be time for grief and doubt later, when all was done.

“Tell me, Diaval, what are your plans after all this?” She spoke at last, her voice firm and authoritative.

Vaguely confused by the question, Diaval blinked at the mounds of snow before him. 

“Wha’?”

“Answer me.”

“Er …” With his mind so set on what had happened in Wickpon, it was difficult to find the focus necessary to even consider an answer to his mate’s question. Aware of her steely gaze, however, he forced himself to focus, squinting at the ground. “To go where you go, of course.”

“I do not doubt it,” Maleficent said. “What else?”

He’d thought the worst of the assault of plagued, rampant emotions was over, but it seemed he was wrong. It gathered there in his throat again, tightening it, and it stung in his eyes. He gritted his teeth and gripped tightly at his knees, desperately willing a moment of normality, anything to make him feel like himself again and not the creature a demon sought to make of him.

“I … I’ll serve Aurora. I’ll bear her messages and lend my advice when she asks for it. I’ll serve the Moors,” he croaked tightly.

“Yes. What else?”

What was she doing? Testing him? He focused some more, and he found an answer that seemed so obvious that he was ashamed of not thinking of it moments ago. With it came a refreshing clarity, a sense of slowly dawning normality, and it was then he realised what Maleficent was doing - something that he had done for her many times in the past. When the faerie was riled and on the verge of destroying something, he would pull her down from that ledge with a calm and gentle reminder of what she afforded to lose, and also what she could gain by considering her options. He would lend her a moment of focus and vision. A torch in the darkness, offering the way onwards.

The path was again lit, no longer spiralling into a terrifying labyrinth one could only get lost in. He closed his eyes and saw it for himself, a vision that he had shared with Maleficent more than once, a perfect moment in their future that he desired so desperately that it hurt: the chance to simply sit or lie with her in their vast home while their children played beyond. The chance to see Aurora sat contentedly on her throne with her son. To see Maleficent smiling brightly without reservation, without fear. Happy. Those were the things that he wanted more than anything.

“To be a good father and mate,” he surmised, finding within a familiar, more Diaval-like determination at last. “It’s all I want.”

“Yes. And if you want to help the Moors overcome this darkness and loss that has beset it, first you must overcome that which has beset you. Do not let demons or humans twist your identity into something it is not, for you are not a villain, no matter how responsible you might feel. Mori’ka was the one who encouraged these battles. It was by his claws that we have seen death and suffering.  _ He _ was the one who chose to do these terrible things, and to let the blame of it all fall to you, just as others have done to me. Yet, here we stand.”

The faerie rose to her feet then, and she offered Diaval her hand. Of course, if there was anyone in the world who understood it all, it was her, she who had been painted with many brushes, she who stood tall through it all and persisted. He felt something else very Diaval-like, then: a deep admiration for the woman he was honoured to call his mate. An unquestionable devotion and love to her that had burnt for years on end and would continue to burn for an eternity, a flame of their own that they shared and nurtured together.

All was not lost.

He reached and took her hand, ambling up to his own feet. Without the weight of the torch, and with the magnificent vision of Maleficent before him, the world tentatively began to make sense again.

The pair of them came together and embraced in the snow. Their armour clanked together and prevented a true union, so they settled on the fae way of showing deep affection: they joined their foreheads and peered into each other’s eyes, interlocking their hands at their chests between them. Maleficent’s wings came to surround them, casting them into a comforting darkness and the wonderful, sweet scent of her feathers. 

“I am sorry for the loss of your friend,” Maleficent spoke after a time, her condolences somewhat awkward but sincere.

“Me too. It won’t be in vain, though. None of their deaths will. I think … yeah, all this ends tonight. He’ll pay for what he’s done.”

“Tonight,” she murmured flatly, and her gaze fell to the Cumbrian Torch lying near them in the white of the snow. “Yes. He will.”

“Maleficent, that place is covered in iron. Maybe it’s better if -“

“And so was Perceforest, once. We infiltrated that castle together, if you recall, after you insisted on following me inside.”

“Insisted! It was more like bravely followin’ you into battle, actually.”

Maleficent subtly rolled her eyes. “Yes, dear. Yet another cowardly villain hides in an iron fortress. This is nothing new, though my power has grown since then. There is nothing he can do to hurt me.”

Perhaps against his better judgement, Diaval found himself intrigued and even slightly flustered in the face of Maleficent’s confidence. He shifted on his feet and briefly peered down the space between them, fearing immensely the prospect of Maleficent being anywhere near Breoslaigh, though was simultaneously overwhelmed with love and admiration for her - she who had put aside her dislike for humans for the greater good, the innocent lives among them. She who would fly into danger to do what was right, no longer carrying her tendency towards malice or indifference.

No matter her decision, Diaval would love her immensely, ceaselessly, either which way.

Their eyes met again. He hoped that she could see, or perhaps even feel for herself the love therein. They shared a lingering kiss and dwelt within that moment of being reunited, for the silence of the woods allowed for the belief that the entire world had fallen into peace, even if they knew that it raged around them.

“Stefan is gone,” Maleficent murmured after a time. Her entire body seemed to relax upon those words being spoken, her wings drifting down to rest upon mounds of snow.

“Gone?  _ Gone _ gone?”

“Yes. Aurora was the one to drive her sword into his soul. It seemed that everything that made him that mad, vile man was burnt away.”

Diaval pulled back a little and stared, trying to read her.

“Did it bring you peace to see it?”

Maleficent’s gaze hardened, then. Dropping her hand, she took Diaval’s into hers. She was careful to remain by his side, keeping her head held high despite the moment of confusion and doubt that flickered across her face.

“I am not sure witnessing the suffering of others has ever brought me peace. It has, however, lifted a great weight from my shoulders to see for myself that the Stefan I knew is gone. He has no memory of me, now.”

“And yet you’re left with the memory of him and everythin’ he did,” Diaval said vacantly, his heart twisting with the thought of Maleficent’s pain. 

“Yes, but through the years … I believe I might have gained back everything that he stole from me. I have my wings. I have allowed myself to love and be loved. He can never take anything away from me again.” The faerie frowned and dropped her gaze, once again looking towards the dark length of the Cumbrian Torch nestled in the snow near their feet. “What is it you were seeing moments ago? Another vision?”

He thought about lying, about telling her that he had not seen anything at all, that it was simply a moment of panic and grief taking hold, and he immediately felt guilty for returning to such thoughts. It was a lack of communication that had driven a wedge between them more than once in the past. Withholding the truth was no way to make Maleficent and his family happy, no matter how terrifying the truth often was.

“The black veil,” he said quickly, before doubt could get the better of him. “It was just - seein’ all this, everythin’ going on … It feels like it’s lookin’ back at me now, even when I’m awake. Like it’s a mirror I can’t see myself in.”

Maleficent regarded him in silence for a moment, a thinly-veiled grave concern there to be seen. For reasons Diaval could not fathom, she extended the golden glow of her magic into him wave after wave, perhaps willing it to seek out any unseen afflictions and heal them. The sensation of it within was always a great comfort and relief, but now, it was largely a sign of Maleficent’s uncertainty and fear, and Diaval only felt all the emptier when it eventually departed him and assumedly left that piece of the demon's soul within intact.

“What a tragedy,” Maleficent spoke flatly, frowning, “that something as beautiful as a raven is unable to see its own reflection. It might find that its visage is not that of the realm of the dead, but of the night sky and all the beauty and mystery to be found there.”

“That’s poetic of you, Maleficent,” Diaval attempted with a weary stab at humour, rather unsure what else to say in response.

“This ends tonight. The others will need a moment to recuperate, but -“

“They can’t.” Briefly releasing her hand, Diaval stooped down to reluctantly retrieve the torch and strap it to his back before he could overthink the matter. “I mean, they can’t come. It’s not right. They’ve already given so much.”

“As have you. More than enough, in fact. Are you  _ really _ suggesting that we march into that place without any sort of help? The fairies have suffered enough, but don’t the humans owe us something of a favour?”

“That’s not how it - We can’t ask them to join us. They’ve just lost everythin’. I’m not takin’ Aurora or Phillip, either. Everybody just needs to go home and rest and figure out what comes next. It was never the plan to march on Breoslaigh but to rely on them just lettin’ us in, right? They have to know we don’t mean ‘em any harm by now.”

“Yes, well, they don’t have any choice in the matter. We are taking that flame whether they let us in or not. The sooner we take it back to that island, the better.” Maleficent’s tone was stern, though her expression turned softer as she regarded her mate. “Let us bring peace to the Moors, then, if you are ready.”

It sunk in, then, just what the rest of the night was going to involve. 

Diaval’s heart fluttered in his chest. The cold sought him through his armour, chilling him to his very core. He felt truly sick with the thought of returning to Breoslaigh again, especially without even the chance to recuperate from the fight in Wickpon, but he knew it had to be done lest more lives were lost to the roaming Feth Fiadha. The weight of such responsibility was so crushing that he wondered how he was able to take even a single step towards the trees.

Maleficent took his arm into hers. Together, they slowly vacated the dark, moody woods. If not for the solidity of her form and the comfort of her presence, Diaval was not sure he would have had the clarity of mind or even the strength to return at all. Assuredly he would have sought the safety of those he loved, and then … perhaps he might have dared hibernate as a bear for the Winter’s end. The option was far more inviting than it had ever been.

The large gathering of humans and fairies was quiet when they returned. People were tending to each other or sleeping, or comforting each other with whispered words. Ahead, Aurora and Phillip were sat in the doorway of one of the many solid fairy structures dotted about the river’s edge, leaning against each other.

The white raven fluttered on behind through the snow, hopping along and eventually catching up to flutter up to Diaval’s shoulder. It seemed he was going to have to get used to its presence, now, no matter how uncomfortable it made him and others that took notice of it. It said nothing, though its words spoken cruelly following Wynne’s defeat were as clear as ever, ringing louder than the icicles dropping from the tree branches onto frozen water. They rang over and over as Diaval and Maleficent passed people faintly lamenting the loss of their homes and everything that they knew.

_ How many people might we have saved? _

He looked at them. The humans. He had not been spared their violence in the past, but even worse were the things some of them had said, words that had, in hindsight, hurt him more than any arrow could.

_ You represent everything that they fear. Call yourself a bird all you like, but you’re not that. You never will be again. _

Absorbed in that unpleasant memory, it took Diaval a moment to realise that Aurora was saying something to him as she shakily stood up from the ground to greet her parents. 

“ … why did you come back?”

Caught off-guard, Diaval stared blankly at the young queen as she ambled through the snow towards him, her golden crown of leaves skew-whiff and her cheeks flushed with exertion. His stomach lurched, upset immediately setting in, though it was swiftly followed with confusion when his daughter ensnared him in a tight embrace.

“Wha’?” He choked out, aghast.

“Father? I asked if you’re alright.” Similarly confused, though appearing relieved enough that her words were confusingly proven right, she pulled back a little and held onto his shoulders to give him a swift once-over. 

Diaval forgot to answer as he clumsily tried to piece together whatever had just happened. Distracted by the hollowness encouraged by the misheard accusation, he simply pulled her against him again and held her. After all, there was nothing that could overpower the relief he felt at seeing her alive and in one piece for himself. She had fortunately avoided any sort of injury. Phillip, too, seemed mostly unscathed save for a nasty bruise across his nose. The prince watched from a small distance away, tired but remarkably alert.

“I’m so sorry about Queen Mera,” Aurora continued, her voice torn with sincere sorrow. “She was such a wonderful person! She didn’t deserve this.”

“She didn’t,” Diaval agreed shortly. “None o’ you did. At least you were able to save most of ‘em.” Slowly, he turned his head to look at the groups of humans and fairies gathered as far as the eye could see down the stretch of the river, their gaunt faces lit by the fire of lanterns. “You did an amazin’ thing tonight, leadin’ them all here. You fought all those monsters for them.” Despite it all, he did manage a smile, reluctantly freeing the queen of his embrace. “I’m proud of you. I can’t wait to hear the songs that they’ll sing about the endlessly brave warrior, Queen Aurora of the Moors.”

He was met with a look of uncertainty. Aurora, clever and empathetic as she was, had perhaps detected an edge of finality to her father’s tone, or had even spied something in his features he had not meant to put there. As though she had not heard his compliments at all, she regarded both of her parents with an immediate suspicion as they proudly beheld her. She took a step back, and her relief and suspicion appeared to turn at once into fear and maybe even anger, for a film of unshed tears sprung at once to her eyes.

“Isn’t it over?” She asked quietly. Accusingly. “I know that look. Both of you. I  _ know _ when you’re not telling me something.”

“It’s over for the humans and the fairies, Beastie,” Maleficent offered placatingly, returning her hands to Diaval’s arm. “We have the torch. We intend to use it tonight to return the flame of Tech Duinn to its rightful place before Mori’ka can do anything to hurt our kingdoms again. I would suggest that this is the wisest thing to do.”

“Wisest thing,” Diaval repeated with a vague nod. On his shoulder, the white raven turned and squawked at them all with a degree of insistence, earning Aurora’s attention for a moment. Her frown only deepened.

“You’ll not leave me behind,” she said firmly. “No. I love you both dearly, and I’ll not have you enter Breoslaigh alone. That is  _ final. _ ”

Phillip stepped forwards, then, weary but as determined as ever. In a level tone, he added:

“And I won’t leave my family to finish this fight alone. That creature is going to pay for what he did to my father and to all of you. For the many mistakes my kingdom has made in the past, we will never abandon the Moors in its times of need. Never again.”

Diaval knew this was a fight he could not win. Despite his reluctance, others were still going to put themselves in danger and follow him to Breoslaigh. He came to realise it with both gratitude and devastation. Beside him, Maleficent tensed and tightened her fingers into his arm, but she too said nothing to fight their cause, perhaps also knowing that nothing they said would change the path being set.

“Bold words for a little human,” came another voice. It belonged to Borra, who emerged into the mix followed by Udo and Yuka. The desert faerie grinned, albeit grimly. “I would say this fight is for the likes of the magic and the winged, but you humans seem to have handled yourself fairly well when facing the dead. However, there is no  _ true _ fight without the desert fae. I will stand beside you.”

“Proudly,” spoke Udo, sharing a sombre glance with his son. “So do we. And no doubt so will Shrike if we are able to convene with the others in the Moors.”

Aurora nodded, and even in the midst of so much misery, she was able to grace those present with a golden, shining smile. To see her courage and her resilience straightened spines and filled many with a resolve they thought they might have lost not so long ago.

“We’ll need to stop in the Moors. The only fairy ring we know of in Breoslaigh is destroyed. We’ll bring the fairies home and share our lands with any humans who need shelter, and then we’ll move onwards to Breoslaigh.”

And that was that. The group that would face the near final step of their mission was formed. In a far off land, Breoslaigh and Mori’ka awaited.

And somewhere in the middle of the sea, a dark island stood alone among black waves.

* * *

Deep in the woods, near the ancient fairy ring that would lead the way home, an unkindness of ravens had fallen prey to Maleficent’s spell of enchanted sleep. Most of them were nestled high in the trees, though Diaval stumbled across a couple that had toppled down into the snow, black feathers askew and beaks pointed towards the heavens. Away from the others, he picked these ravens up and found branches for them to spend their days in. 

He turned upon hearing a shuffling through the snow behind him. There, Pioden was trudging forth and watching him with wide eyes, staring at him and then at the ravens he was rescuing from the cold, and he glanced with a touch of nervousness towards the bone-white raven sat comfortably upon Diaval’s shoulder.

“Hey,” the prince greeted, his voice hoarse. “So it’s nearly time, huh? I was just speaking to Aurora. She caught me up on some things. It was really nice to meet her and Phillip at last. They’re both real nice, aren’t they? I mean, of course you’d know. And I met Maleficent just now, too. She didn’t say much, but -  _ wow.  _ She looks nothing like the stories say. She’s still kinda scary, but … er, no offence or anything.”

Diaval stopped and faced him, dropping his hands to his hips. At the same time, his gaze fell upon the sword still sheathed at Pio’s hip and the armour he had found somewhere along the way. The boy avoided his eyes and instead picked up a raven from the snow, handling it as though he thought it might break like glass in his hands, and then very carefully laid it to rest in the nearest tree.

“Magical sleep, right? So how come he can control them but not you?”

“I’m not too much like them anymore, I ‘spose.” 

“Huh.” Pio very carefully brushed snow off the raven’s feathers. “Right. Makes sense! I think. So how did a raven end up with a faerie like that? Such a lady must be kinda hard to woo, right? Man. My mum said you were a special kind of raven when I asked. Didn’t really clear anything up, but she must be right. I mean, she must have been right.”

“You’re not really comin’ to Breoslaigh, are you?”

Pio smiled slightly, then. The grief and shock of his mother’s passing had not left his eyes in the slightest. The moisture of tears still glistened on his cheeks. Still, he smiled and nodded with the sort of pride that Diaval could only describe as very human: the sort of pride that would send one headlong into danger without a second thought.

“Yeah! I asked Aurora about it all. There’s a demon at the helm of all this, and I served him without knowing. I left my home and served the one that ruined so much for the people I care about. I can’t live with myself knowing I’ve done that.” He paused and quickly wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands. “You said we’re family. I can’t just … stay out of it. I want to see him fall.”

“You deserve to see that,” Diaval said throatily, nodding. 

“So do you. I’ll help you like you helped me. No matter what. Don’t think I don’t know all the things he’s done. One of the worst things of all is making you feel like it’s your fault. My dad did the same thing to me. Somehow I was the bad one even if it was him doing that stuff …” Pio smiled vaguely again, leaving the raven behind to face Diaval, and he nodded sagely. “I know that look. And maybe you saw it in me, too, back when we first met. Just … scared.”

“That must be it.” Gazing at Pio a moment longer, Diaval sighed and reached out to put a hand on the prince’s shoulder, seeing the tears that still lingered. “I’m grateful, y’know, even just to have met you and your mum. I’m sorry that she isn’t walkin’ here beside us. Tomorrow is a new day, though, and I’ll be here to see it through with you, just as she wanted.”

Pio sniffled and rubbed his nose, nodding even as the tears began to spill over again.

“A new day,” he agreed, and there was a remarkable hope to be heard in his voice. “Yeah. That’s what she wanted for a long time.” With another little sigh, he looked towards the heavens for a moment in an effort to dry his eyes, though it did little to help. He glanced at Diaval instead, and he managed something of a smirk. “I’m liking the white raven on your shoulder. Makes you look like some kinda pirate. A pirate in armour. Have you ever met a pirate, by the way? I thought about becoming one when I was a kid. Mum said we’re descended from pirates, and they had massive beards and drank loads of mead. They thought ravens were the eyes of the gods. I mean, you’re missing the beard and the mead, but … a shapeshifting raven is still really cool.”

Diaval slowly blinked, then lightly clapped Pio’s shoulder and began to head towards the cavalcade passing by in the distance. 

“C’mon, then. And don’t let nothin’ ever change you, Prince Pioden. Maybe one day we can get on a boat and just … wile away the daylight pretendin’ to be pirates for a while.”

Pio appeared rather hopeful at the suggestion.

Ahead, the elegant form of Maleficent walked confidently onwards, her dark wings raking through the white of the snow. She turned every now and again to look at him, her brilliant green-gold eyes like stars, beacons in the night. Just looking at her made Diaval’s mouth go dry at the best of times, but now ... she emptied his thoughts from his head entirely. He could not quite forget the things that humans and the white raven had said to him. Uncomfortable things, whether truthful or not. Seeing her, being with her ... being with family and friends, it all served to help ease those words into silence. For a time, as they all travelled the woods, he could silence them. He could be the person his family needed him to be again.

For he loved them without end. If it meant to defy death at every turn, then he would defy it ceaselessly again and again.

He didn’t know if that was right. He liked his answers to be clear and obvious, plain there to see with his own eyes. And then he realised - perhaps it _was_ plain to see. There to touch and to love, beautiful and winged and brilliant. Shining like the sun through many, many storms.

The only answer to any worthwhile dilemma.

Maleficent.


End file.
